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ELIZABETH  ■  STUART-  PHELPS 


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^oolis  bp  eii^afaetb  Stuart  Pbelps. 

(MRS.  WARD.) 


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FOURTEEN  TO  ONE 


ELIZABETH    STUART  PHELPS 


BOSTON    AND    NEW    YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN   AND   COMPANY 


Copyright,  1891, 
By  ELIZABETH   STUART   PHELPS  WARD. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Hiverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Company. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 
FOURTEEK   TO   OkE 1 

The  Bell  of  St.  Basil's 35 

Shut  In 66 

Jack  the  Fishehman 100 

The  Mabonna  of  the  Tubs 150 

A  Brave  Deed 202 

The  Sacrifice  of  Antigone 231 

Sweet  Home 247 

Too  Late »        .  278 

The  Reverend  Malachi  Matthew        ....      323 

His  Relict 346 

Mary  Elizabeth 370 

Annie  Laurie 381 

The  Law  and  the  Gospel 421 


FOURTEEN  TO  ONE. 

There  are  certain  situations  inherently  too  pre- 
posterous for  fiction;  the  very  telling  of  them  in- 
volves the  presumption  of  fact.  No  writer  with  any 
regard  for  his  literary  reputation  would  invent  such 
a  tale  as  that  which  I  am  about  to  relate.  The 
reader  will  agree  with  me,  I  think,  that  the  conclu- 
sive events  of  the  story  are  but  another  evidence 
that  truth  is  the  most  amazing  thing  in  the  world. 
For  reasons  which  will  be  sufficiently  obvious,  I  shall 
not  make  use  of  authentic  names  of  either  the  per- 
sons or  the  localities  involved  in  the  recital  of  one  of 
the  most  thrilling  incidents  in  modern  American  his- 
tory, but  fold  them  in  the  film  of  fiction  necessary  to 
their  presentation.  I  use  the  word  history  accord- 
ing to  the  best  of  my  knowledge  and  belief.  For 
that  portion  of  the  tale  which  is  offered  as  such,  my 
main  witness  is  dead.  I  can  only  say  that  the  testi- 
mony satisfied  myself.  My  readers  are  at  liberty  to 
accept  or  refuse  it  as  they  choose.  With  this  prefa- 
tory word,  which  may  give  force  to  the  narrative,  I 
need  only  proceed  to  record  the  circumstances. 

The  Eeverend  Mr.  Matthews  was  hitching  up  his 
horse  to  go  to  the  post-office.  The  horse  was  old ; 
the  man  was  old.     The  horse  was  gray  ;  so  was  the 


2  ■  FOURTEEN  TO  ONE. 

man.  The  -wagon  was  well  worn  of  its  paint,  which 
was  once  a  worldly  blue,  and  the  wheels  sprawled 
at  the  axles  like  a  decrepit  old  person  going  bow- 
legged  from  age.  The  Reverend  Mr.  Matthews  did 
not  use  the  saddle,  according  to  the  custom  of  the 
region  ;  he  was  lame  and  found  it  difficult  to  mount. 

It  was  a  chilly  day,  and  what  was  once  a  buffalo 
robe  lay  across  the  wagon  seat ;  a  few  tufts  of  hair 
remained  upon  the  bare  skin,  but  it  was  neatly  lined 
with  a  woman's  shawl  —  an  old  plaid,  originally  com- 
bining more  colors  than  a  rag  mat,  but  now  faded  to 
a  vague  general  dinginess  which  would  recommend 
it  to  the  "  low  tone "  of  modern  art.  The  harness 
was  as  old  as  the  buffalo  robe,  as  old  as  the  shawl, 
as  old  as  the  horse,  one  might  venture  to  say  as  old 
as  the  man.  It  had  been  patched,  and  mended,  and 
lapped,  and  strapped,  and  tied,  past  the  ingenuity  of 
any  but  the  very  poor,  and  the  really  intelligent ;  it 
was  expected  to  drop  to  pieces  at  the  mildest  provo- 
cation, and  the  driver  was  supposed  to  clamber  down 
over  the  bow-legged  wheels  and  tie  it  up  again,  which 
he  always  did,  and  always  patiently.  He  was  a  very 
patient  old  man  ;  but  there  was  a  spark  in  his  dim 
blue  eye. 

The  reins,  which  he  took  firmly  enough  in  his  bare 
hands,  were  of  rope,  by  the  way.  He  could  not  go 
to  the  post-office  on  Mondays  because  his  wife  had 
to  use  the  clothes-line.  He  felt  it  a  special  dispen- 
sation of  Providence  that  women  did  not  wash  on 
Saturdays,  when  his  number  of  "  Zion's  Herald  "  was 
due. 

She  came  out  of  the  house  when  he  had  harnessed, 
and  stood  with  her  hands  wrapped  in  her  little  black- 


FOURTEEN  TO  ONE.  3 

and-white  checked  shoulder  shawl,  watching  hiin 
with  eyes  where  thirty  years,  of  married  love  dwelt 
gently.  Something  sharper  than  love  crossed  her 
thin  face  in  long  lines;  she  had  an  expression  of 
habitual  anxiety  refined  to  feminine  acuteness ;  for 
it  was  the  year  1870,  and  it  was  —  let  us  call  it,  since 
we  must  call  it  something,  the  State  of  Kennessee. 

Mrs.  Matthews  stood  in  that  portion  of  the  house 
which  Kennessee  does  not  call  a  loggia,  neither  is  it 
a  porch,  a  piazza,  or  a  hall.  It  results  from  the  dual 
division  of  the  house,  which  rises  on  each  side,  unit- 
ing in  one  boarded  roof  and  a  loft.  Two  chimneys 
of  stone  or  of  clay,  according  to  the  social  status  of 
the  owner,  flank  the  house  on  each  side.  The  Eev. 
Mr.  Matthews's  chimneys  were  of  clay,  for  he  was 
a  minister  of  the  Methodist  faith.  His  house  was 
built  of  logs  ;  through  the  space  which  cut  the  build- 
ing the  chickens  walked  critically,  like  boarders  dis- 
cussing their  dinner.  The  domestic  dwelling  of  a 
comfortable  pig  could  be  seen  in  the  background. 
There  were  sheds,  and  something  resembling  a  barn 
for  the  horse.  All  were  scrupulously  neat.  Behind, 
the  mountains  towered  and  had  a  dark  expression. 
A  clear  sky  burned  above,  but  one  had  to  look  for  it, 
it  was  so  far,  and  there  seemed  so  small  an  allowance 
of  it  —  so  much  of  the  State  of  Kennessee  ;  so  little 
of  heaven. 

"  Are  you  going  to  the  post-office  ?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Matthews,  softly.  She  knew  perfectly  well,  but  she 
always  asked ;  he  always  answered.  If  it  gave  her 
pleasure  to  inquire,  he  reasoned,  why  not  ? 

"  Yes,  Deborah,"  said  the  old  man,  briskly.  "  Want 
to  go  ?  " 


4  FOURTEEN  TO  ONE. 

"  I  don't  know.     Is  Hezekiah  tuckered  out  ?  " 

"  Hezekiah  is  as  spry  as  a  chipmunk,"  returned 
the  minister,  confidently,  Now  Hezekiah  was  the 
horse,  and  thirty-one  years  old.  He  received  this 
astonishing  tribute  with  a  slow  revolution  of  his  best 
eye  (for  he  was  blind  in  the  other,  but  no  one  ever 
mentioned  the  fact  in  Hezekiah's  presence)  which 
might  have  passed  for  that  superior  effort  of  intelli- 
gence knoAvn  only  to  the  human  race,  and  vulgarly 
called  a  wink. 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Matthews,  doubtfully,  "  I  don't 
know  's  I  '11  go." 

She  pronounced  these  words  with  marked,  almost 
painful,  hesitation,  in  an  accent  foreign  to  her  en- 
vironment. Her  movements  and  dress  were  after 
the  manner  of  Kennessee;  but  her  speech  was  the 
speech  of  Xew  Hampshire.  They  had  been  North- 
erners thirty  years  ago.  Weak  lungs  brought  him 
and  these  mountain  parishes  kept  him.  His  useful- 
ness had  been  so  obvious,  that  his  bishop  had  never 
shifted  him  far,  reappointing  him  from  term  to  term 
within  a  twenty -mile  circuit  among  those  barren 
fields.  The  situation  was  exceptional,  the  bishop 
said ;  at  all  events,  he  had  chosen  so  to  treat  it. 
Thirty  years  —  and  such  years  !  —  seemed  a  long 
time  to  stay  triie  to  the  traditions  of  youth  and  a 
flag.  The  parishioners  and  people  whom,  for  cour- 
tesy, one  called  one's  neighbors  in  those  desolate, 
divided  mountain  homes,  expressed  themselves  vari- 
ously upon  the  parson's  loyalty  to  the  national  cause. 
The  Border  State  indecision  had  murmured  about 
him  critically,  for  the  immediate  region  had  flashed 
during  the  civil  war,  and  remained  sulky  still. 


FOURTEEN  TO  ONE.  5 

The  Confederacy  had  never  lacked  friends  in  that 
township.  Of  late  the  murmur  had  become  a  mut- 
ter. The  parson  had  given  offense.  He  had  preached 
a  sermon  treating  of  certain  disorders  which  had  be- 
come historic,  for  which  the  village  and  valley  had 
acquired  unenviable  notoriety,  and  which  they  were 
slower  than  some  other  sections  in  abandoning, 
now  that  the  civil  situation  supposed  them  to  have 
done  so. 

"If  I  thought  I  could  prevent  anything,"  pro- 
ceeded Mrs.  Matthews  anxiously,  "  I  'd  —  I  'd  —  I 
don't  know  but  I  'd  go.  Are  you  goin'  to  hold  the 
meetin',  after  all  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  replied  the  minister,  lifting  his  head. 
"  I  shall  dispense  the  Word  as  usual." 

"  Well,"  said  his  wife  sadly,  —  "  well,  I  s'pose  you 
will.  I  might  have  known.  But  I  hoped  you  'd  put 
it  off.  I  was  afraid  to  ask  you.  I  can't  help  wor- 
ryin'.  I  don't  know  but  I'll  go,  too.  I  can  get  my 
bunnet  on  in  a  minute." 

Her  husband  hesitated  perceptibly.  He  did  not 
tell  her  that  he  was  afraid  to  take  her ;  that  he  was 
almost  equally  afraid  to  leave  her.     He  said :  — 

"  The  lock  of  the  back  door  is  n't  mended  yet ;  I 
I  don't  know  but  things  need  watching.  That  speckled 
bantam 's  dreadfully  afraid  of  weasels  when  she  's 
setting  ;  I  don't  know  's  I  blame  her." 

"Well,"  returned  the  old  lady  with  a  sigh,  "I 
don't  know  but  you  're  right.  If  it 's  the  Lord's  will 
I  should  stay  at  home  and  shoo  weasels,  I  s'pose  he 
can  look  after  you  without  my  help,  if  he  has  a  mind 
to.  Will  you  take  the  sweet  potatoes  along  ?  There 's 
a  bushel  and  a  half ;  and  two  dozen  eggs." 


6  FOURTEEN  TO  ONE. 

The  two  old  people  loaded  the  wagon  together, 
rather  silently.  Nothing  further  was  said  about  the 
prayer-meeting.  Neither  alluded  to  danger.  They 
spoke  of  the  price  of  potatoes  and  chickens.  The 
times  were  too  stern  to  be  spendthrift  in  emotion. 
One  might  be  lavish  of  anything  else  ;  but  one  had 
to  economize  in  feeling,  and  be  a  miser  in  its  expres- 
sion. When  the  parson  was  ready  to  start  he  kissed 
his  wife,  and  said  :  — 

"  Good-by,  Deborah." 

And  she  said,  "  Good-by,  Levi." 

Then  she  said  :  "  Let  me  tuck  you  up  a  little.  The 
buffalo  ain't  in." 

She  tucked  the  old  robe  about  the  old  legs  with 
painstaking,  motherly  thoroughness,  as  if  he  had 
been  a  boy  going  to  bed.  She  said  how  glad  she  was 
she  had  that  nice  shawl  to  line  it. 

"  Thank  you,  Deborah.  Keep  the  doors  locked, 
won't  you  ?  And  I  would  n't  run  out  much  till  I 
get  back." 

"  No,  I  don't  know  's  I  will.  Have  you  got  your 
lantern  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  your  pistol  ?  " 

"No."  I 

"  Ain't  you  going  to  take  it  ?  " 

"  No,  Deborah  ;  I  've  decided  not  to.  Besides,  it 's 
a  rusty  old  aifair.     It  would  n't  do  much." 

"  You  '11  get  home  by  nine,  won't  you  ? "  she 
pleaded,  lifting  her  withered  cheek  over  the  high, 
muddy  wheel.  For  a  moment  those  lines  of  anxiety 
seemed  to  grow  corrosive,  as  if  they  would  eat  her 
face  out. 


FOURTEEN  TO  ONE.  7 

"  Or  quarter-past,"  said  the  parson,  cheerfully. 
"  But  don't  worry  if  I  'm  not  here  till  half-past." 

Hezekiah  took  occasion  to  start  at  this  point ;  he 
was  an  experienced  horse ;  he  knew  when  a  conver- 
sation had  lasted  long  enough  at  the  parting  of  hus- 
band and  wife,  in  1870,  and  in  Kennessee.  No  horse 
with  two  eyes  could  see  as  much  as  Hezekiah.  This 
was  understood  in  the  family. 

A  rickety,  rocky  path,  about  four  feet  wide,  called 
by  courtesy  "  The  Road,"  wound  away  from  the  par- 
sonage. The  cornfield  grew  to  it  on  each  side.  The 
tall  stalks,  some  of  them  ten  feet  high,  stood  dead 
and  stark,  shivering  in  the  rising  wind.  The  old 
man  drove  into  them.  They  closed  about  his  gray 
head.  Only  the  rear  of  the  muddy  blue  wagon  was 
visible  between  the  husks. 

"  Levi !     Levi !     I  want  to  ask  a  question." 

She  could  hear  the  bow-legged  wheels  come  to  a 
lame  halt ;  but  she  could  not  see  him.  He  called 
through  the  corn  in  his  patient  voice  :  — 

"  Well,  well !    What  is  it  ?    Ask  away,  Deborah." 

"  What  time  shall  I  begin  to  worry,  Levi  ?  " 

To  this  essentially  feminine  inquiry  silence  an- 
swered significantly :  — 

"My  dear,"  said  the  invisible  husband  after  a  long 
pause,  "  perhaps  by  ten  —  or  half  past.  Or  suppose 
we  say  eleven." 

She  ran  out  into  the  corn  to  see  him.  It  seemed 
to  her,  siiddenly,  as  if  she  should  strangle  to  death  if 
she  did  not  see  him  once  more.  But  she  did  not  call, 
and  he  did  not  know  that  she  was  there.  She  ran 
on,  gathering  up  her  chocolate-colored  calico  dress, 
and  wrapping  her  checked  shawl  about  her  head  ner- 


8  FOURTEEN  TO  ONE. 

vously.  At  the  turn  of  the  path  there  v/as  a  prickly- 
locust  tree.  It  had  been  burnt  to  make  way  for 
crops  after  the  fashion  of  the  country,  which  is  too 
indolent  to  hew ;  it  had  not  been  well  burned,  and 
one  long,  strong  limb  stretched  out  like  an  arm ;  it 
Avas  black,  and  seemed  to  point  at  the  old  man  as  he 
disappeared  around  the  twist  in  the  path  where  the 
returning-valley  curved  in,  and  the  passenger  found 
a  way  to  the  highway.  The  parson  was  singing. 
His  voice  came  back  on  the  wind :  — 

"  How  firm  a  foun-d^-tion,  ye  sa-aints  of  the  Lo-ord  !  " 

She  wiped  the  tears  from  her  eyes  and  came  back 
through  the  corn,  slowly;  all  her  withered  figure 
drooped. 

"  I  don't  know  but  I  'd  ought  to  have  perked  up 
and  gone  with  him,"  she  said  aloud,  plaintively. 

She  stood  in  the  house-place,  among  the  chickens, 
for  a  few  minutes,  looking  out.  She  was  used,  like 
other  women  in  that  desolate  country,  to  being  left 
much  alone.  Those  terrible  four  years  from  '61  to 
'65  had  taught  her,  she  used  to  think,  all  the  lessons 
that  danger  and  solitude  can  teach ;  but  she  was 
learning  new,  now.  Peace  had  brought  anything, 
everything,  but  security.  She  was  a  good  deal  of  a 
woman,  as  the  phrase  goes,  with  a  set  strong  Yan- 
kee mouth.  Life  had  never  dealt  so  easily  with  her 
that  she  expected  anything  of  it ;  it  had  given  her 
no  chance  to  become  what  women  call  "  timid." 
Yet  as  she  stood  looking  through  the  stark  corn  on 
that  cold  gray  day  she  shook  with  a  kind  of  horror. 

Women  know  what  it  is  —  this  ague  of  the  heart 
which  follows  the  absent  beloved.     The  safest  lives 


FOUETEEN  TO  ONE.  9 

experience  it,  in  chills  of  real  foresight,  or  fevers  of 
the  imagination.  Deborah  Matthews  lived  in  the  lap 
of  daily  dangers  that  had  not  alienated  her  good 
sense,  nor  suffocated  that  sweet,  persistent  trust  in 
the  nature  of  things,  call  it  feminine  or  religious, 
which  is  the  most  amazing  fact  in  human  life ;  but 
sometimes  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  her  soul  were  turn- 
ing stiif,  as  flesh  does  from  fear. 

"  If  this  goes  on  long  enough,  I  shall  die  of  it," 
she  said.  "  He  will  come  home  some  day,  and  I  shall 
be  dead  of  listenin',  and  shiverin',  and  prayin'  to 
Mercy  for  him.  Prayer  is  Scripture,  I  suppose,  and 
I  have  n't  anythin'  against  it ;  but  folks  can  die  of 
too  much  prayin',  as  well  as  a  gallopin'  consumption 
or  the  shakes." 

Only  the  chickens  heard  her,  hoAvever,  and  they 
responded  with  critical  clucks,  like  church  members 
who  thought  her  heretical.  Since  chickens  consti- 
tuted her  duties,  she  would  gratify  Heaven  and 
divert  her  mind  by  going  out  to  see  the  setting  ban- 
tam ;  who  took  her  for  a  weasel  and  protested  vio- 
lently. 

Mrs.  Matthews  came^back  to  the  house  indefinably 
comforted,  in  a  spiritual  way,  by  this  secular  inter- 
ruption, and  prepared  to  lock  up  carefully,  as  her 
husband  had  bidden  her.  It  was  necessary  to  look 
after  all  the  creatures  first :  the  critical  chickens, 
the  comfortable  pig,  the  gaunt  cow,  and  the  Eooster, 
for  whom,  as-  he  was  but  one,  and  had  all  the  lordli- 
ness of  his  race,  and  invariably  ran  away  from  her, 
and  never  came  till  he  got  read}^,  Mrs.  Matthews  had 
a  marked  respect,  and  thought  of  him  as  spelled 
with  a  capital.     It  took  a  great  while  that  evening 


10  FOURTEEN  TO  ONE. 

to  get  the  Rooster  into  the  pen,  and  while  her  fem- 
inine coax  and  his  masculine  crow  ricochetted  about 
the  cornfield,  the  old  lady  cast  a  sharp,  watchful  eye 
all  over  the  premises  and  their  vicinity.  Silence 
and  solitude  responded  to  her.  No  intrusion  or  in- 
truder gave  sign.  The  mountain  seemed  to  overlook 
the  house  pompously,  as  a  thing  too  small  to  pro- 
tect. The  valley  had  a  stealthy  look,  as  if  it  were 
creeping  up  to  her.  The  day  was  darkening  fast. 
The  gloom  of  its  decline  came  on  with  the  abrupt- 
ness of  a  mountain  region,  and  the  world  seemed 
suddenly  to  shrink  away  from  the  lonely  spot  and 
forget  it. 

Mrs.  Matthews,  when  she  had  locked  up  the  ani- 
mals with  difficulty,  deference,  or  fear,  according  to 
their  respective  temperaments,  fastened  the  doors 
and  windows  of  the  house  carefully,  and  looked  at 
the  clock.  It  was  half-past  six.  She  took  off  her 
muddy  rubbers,  brushed  them  neatly,  folded  away 
her  shawl,  and  started  the  fire  economically.  She 
must  have  a  cup  of  tea ;  but  supper  should  wait  for 
Levi,  who  needed  something  solid  after  Friday  even- 
ing meeting.  She  busied  herself  with  these  details 
assiduously.  Her  life  was  what  we  might  call  large 
with  trifles  ;  she  made  the  most  of  them  ;  there  was 
nothing  better  that  she  knew  of  to  keep  great  anxi- 
eties out  of  the  head  and  sickening  terrors  out  of 
the  heart. 

There  was  one  thing,  to  be  sure :  Mrs.  Matthews 
called  it  faith  in  providence.  The  parson's  wife 
had  her  share  of  it,  but  it  took  on  practical,  often 
secular,  forms.  Sometimes  she  prayed  aloud,  as  she 
sat  there  alone,  quaking  in  every  nerve.     Sometimes 


FOURTEEN   TO  ONE.  11 

she  pitched  her  shrill  old  voice,  as  she  did  to-day, 
several  notes  above  the  key,  and  sang  :  — 

"  How  firm  a  foun-da-tion,  ye  sa-aints  of  the  Lo-ord! 
Is  laid  for  your  fa-aith  in  his  ex-cellent  word!  " 

But  she  locked  the  house  up  before  she  sang.     She 
made  her  tea,  too,  and  drank  it. 

"  I  always  feel  t®  get  a  better  spiritual  attitude," 
she  used  to  say,  "  when  I  've  had  my  cup  of  tea." 

The  house  was  so  neat  that  its  rudeness  became  a 
kind  of  daintiness  to  the  eye  ;  and  the  trim  old  lady, 
in  her  chocolate  calico  Avith  its  strip  of  a  ruffle  at 
throat  and  wrists,  sat  before  the  fireplace,  meditative 
and  sweet,  like  a  priestess  before  an  altar.  She  used 
to  hate  that  fireplace  with  hot  New  Hampshire 
hatred  —  the  kettle,  the  crane,  and  all  the  barbarous 
ways  of  managing;  but  she  had  contrived  to  get 
used  to  it  now.  It  was  the  dream  of  her  life  to  save 
money  enough  to  freight  a  good  Korthern  cook-stove 
over  from  Chattanooga.  But  she  expected  to  die 
without  it.  The  room  winked  brightly  with  shiny 
tin-ware  hung  above  the  fireplace,  and  chintz  cur- 
tains at  the  windoAvs.  There  were  hollyhocks  on  the 
curtains  which  seemed  like  New  Hampshire,  if  you 
made  believe  very  much.  There  Avas  a  centre-table 
with  a  very  old  red  and  black  tablecloth  of  the  fash- 
ion of  fifty  years  ago.  The  minister's  writing  mate- 
rials adorned  this  table  —  his  tall  inkstand,  Avith  its 
oxidized  silver  top :  his  first  parish  in  New  Hamp- 
shire gave  him  that  inkstand,  at  a  donation  party,  in 
a  sleet  storm  one  January  night,  Avith  a  barrel  of 
flour  and  a  bushel  of  potatoes.  Beside  the  inkstand 
lay  his  quill  pen,  sharpened  A\ath  the  precision  of  a 


12  FOURTEEN  TO  ONE. 

man  who  does  not  do  much  writing ;  the  cheap,  Llue- 
ruled  letter  paper,  a  quire  of  it ;  and  the  sacred  ser- 
mon paper  which  Mrs.  Matthews  would  not  have 
touched  for  her  life  ;  she  would  as  soon  have  touched 
the  sermons.  These  were  carefully  packed  away  in 
the  corner  in  a  barrel  covered  with  turkey-red  and 
surmounted  with  a  board  top.  The  family  Bible  lay 
on  the  board. 

Above  rose  the  minister's  "  library."     This  was  a 
serious  affair,  greatly  respected  in  the  parish  and 
adored  by  the  minister's  wife.     It  took  at  least  three 
poi)lar  shelves,  stained  by  Mr.  Matthews's  own  hand 
and  a  borrowed   paint-brush,  to  hold  that    library. 
Upon    the   lower    shelf    the    family   clock    ticked 
solemnly,   flanked    by   Cruden's    Concordance    and 
Worcester's    Dictionary.      For    neighbors    to    these 
there  were  two  odd  volumes  of  an  ancient  encyclo- 
pedia,   the    letters    unfortunately  slipping    from  A 
to    Z    without    immediate    alphabetical    connection. 
Upon   such    subjects,   for   instance,  as    alchemy   or 
zoology,  the  minister  was  known  to  have  shown  a 
crushing  scholarship,  which  was  not  strictly  main- 
tained upon  all  topics.     Barnes's  Notes  on  Matthew 
occupied   a  decorous  position  in  the  library.     The 
life  of  John  Wesley,  worn  to  tatters  and   covered 
with  a  neat  brown-paper  grocery-bag,  overflowed  into 
two  octavo  volumes,  which,  after  all,  had  the  com- 
fortable, knowing  look  of  a  biography  which  treats 
of  a  successful  life-experience,  opulent  in  fact  and 
feeling,  alert  and  happy.     Beside  the  shriveled  ca- 
reer of  this  humble  disciple,  what  a  story  ! 

The  History  of  Kew  Hampshire  stood  beside  John 
Wesley.     A  map  of  the   State  of  Keunessee   sur- 


FOUETEEN  TO  ONE.  13 

mounted  the  library.  For  the  rest,  the  shelves  were 
fatly  filled  with  filed  copies  of  "  Ziou's  Herald  "  and 
a  Chattanooga  weekly. 

There  was  an  old  lounge  in  the  room,  home-made, 
covered  with  a  calico  comforter  and  a  dyed  brown 
shawl.  The  minister's  slippers  lay  beside  it ;  they 
were  of  felt,  and  she  had  made  them.  This  lounge 
was  Mr.  Matthews's  own  particular  resting-place 
when  the  roads  were  rough  or  the  meeting  late.  If 
he  were  very  late,  and  she  grew  anxious,  his  wife 
went  up  and  stroked  the  lounge  sometimes. 

Their  bedroom  opened  across  the  house-place  from 
the  living-room.  It  held  a  white  bed,  with  posts, 
and  old  white  curtains  much  darned.  Mrs.  Mat- 
thews's Bible  lay  on  a;  table  beside  the  bed.  The 
room  v,^as  destitute  of  furniture  or  ornaments,  but  it 
had  a  rag  carpet  and  a  fireplace.  When  Mr.  Mat- 
thews had  a  sore  throat  and  it  was  very  cold  they 
had  a  fire  to  go  to  bed  by.     That  was  delightful. 

When  Mrs.  Matthews  had  taken  her  cup  of  tea 
and  sung  "  How  firm  a  foundation "  till  she  was 
afraid  she  should  be  tired  of  it,  which  struck  her  as 
an  impiety  to  be  avoided,  she  walked  about  the 
house  looking  at  everything,  crossing  from  room  to 
room,  and  looking  cautiously  after  her.  It  was  very 
still. 

It  was  almost  deadly  still.  How  long  the  even- 
ing !  Seven  —  eight  —  half-past  eight  o'clock.  She 
tried  to  sew  a  little,  mending  his  old  coat.  She 
tried  to  read  the  religious  news  in  "  Zion's  Herald  ;  " 
this  failing,  she  even  ventured  on  the  funny  column, 
for  it  was  not  Sunday.  But  nothing  amused  her. 
Life  did  not  strike  her  as  funny,  that  night.     She 


14  FOURTEEN  TO  ONE. 

folded  the  coat,  she  folded  the  paper,  she  got  up  and 
walked,  and  walked  again. 

Pretty  little  home  !  She  looked  it  over  tenderly. 
How  she  loved  it.  How  he  loved  it.  What  years 
had  they  groAvn  to  it,  day  by  busy  day,  night  by 
quiet  night.  What  work,  what  sorrow,  what  joy 
and  anxiety,  what  economy,  what  comfort,  what  long, 
healthy,  happy  sleep  had  they  shared  in  it !  As  she 
passed  before  the  fire,  casting  tall  shadows  on  the 
chintz  curtains,  she  began  to  sing  again,  shrilly  :  — 

"  Home  — home,  dear,  dear  home  !  " 

Nine  o'clock.  Yes,  nine  ;  for  the  rickety  old  clock 
on  the  library  shelf  said  so,  distinctly.  It  was  time 
to  stop  pacing  the  room  ;  it  was  time  to  stop  being 
anxious  and  thinking  of  everything  to  keep  one's 
courage  up  ;  it  was  time  to  put  the  johnny-cake  on 
and  start  the  coffee ;  he  would  be  hungry,  as  men- 
folks  ought  to  be  ;  God  made  'em  so.  It  was  time 
to  peep  between  the  hollyhock  curtains  and  put  her 
hands  against  her  eyes,  and  peer  out  across  the  corn- 
field. It  was  time  to  grow  nervous,  and  restless,  and 
flushed,  and  happy.  It  was  not  time,  thank  God,  to 
worry. 

The  color  came  to  her  withered  cheek.  She  was 
handsomer  as  an  old  lady  than  she  had  been  as  a 
young  one,  and  the  happier  she  grew  the  better  she 
looked,  like  all  women,  young  or  old.  She  bustled 
about,  with  neat,  housewifely  fussiness.  She  knew 
that  her  husband  thanked  Heaven  for  her  New  Eng- 
land home-craft  —  none  of  your  ''easy"  Southern 
housekeeping  for  Levi  Matthews.  What  would  have 
become  of  the  man  ?  As  she  worked,  she  sang  un- 
consciously, "  Dear,  clean  home  !  " 


FOUETEEN  TO  ONE.  15 

The  johnny-cake  was  baking  briskly.  The  can- 
dles were  lighted.  The  coffee  Avas  stirred,  and  set- 
tled with  the  shell  of  an  egg ;  it  was  ready  to  boil. 
It  was  quarter-past  nine.  Mrs.  Matthews's  head  grew 
a  little  muddled  from  excitement.  She  began  again 
at  the  top  of  her  voice : 

"  How  fimi  a  f  oun-da-tion,  ye  sa-aints  of  the  Lo-ord  ! 
Is  laid  for  your  f a-aith  in  an  ex-cellent  home  !  ' ' 

The  clock  wedged  between  the  concordance  and 
the  dictionary  struck  half-past  nine  with  an  ecclesi- 
astical tone ;  dogmatically,  as  if  to  insist  on  the 
point  as  a  tenet  on  which  she  had  been  skeptical. 

Mrs.  Matthews  stopped  singing.  She  went  to  the 
window.  The  coffee  was  boiling  over.  The  corn- 
cake  was  done  brown.  She  pulled  aside  the  cur- 
tain uneasily.  The  pine-wood  fire  flared,  and  blinded 
her  with  a  great  outburst  of  light.  She  could  see 
nothing  without,  and  stood  for  a  moment  dazzled. 
Then  she  began  to  look  intently,  and  so  accustomed 
her  eyes  to  the  masses  of  shadow  and  the  lines  of 
form  outside.  The  road  wound  away  abruptly,  lost 
in  the  darkness  like  a  river  dashed  into  the  sea.  The 
cornstalks  closed  over  it,  stark  and  sear  ;  she  opened 
the  window  a  little  and  heard  them  rustle,  as  if  they 
were  discussing  something  in  whispers.  Above  the 
corn  shot  the  gaunt  arm  of  the  prickly  locust, 
burned  and  bare.  The  outlines  of  the  mountain 
were  invisible.  The  valley  was  sunk  in  the  night. 
Nothing  else  was  to  be  seen. 

As  she  leaned,  listening  for  the  sedate  hoofs  of 
old  Hezekiah,  or  the  lame  rumble  of  the  blue  wagon 
wheels,  the  Eooster  uttered  from  his  pen  a  piercing 
crow,  and  the  bantam  hen  responded  with  an  anx- 
ious cluck. 


16  FOURTEEN  TO  ONE. 

She  could  have  killed  either  of  these  garrulous 
members  of  her  family  for  the  interruption.  The 
chickens  always  crowed  when  she  was  listening  for 
Mr.  IMatthews.  AVhen  the  irritating  sounds  had 
died  away  on  the  damp  air  with  long,  wavering 
echoes,  a  silence  that  was  indescribably  appalling 
settled  about  the  place.  Nothing  broke  it.  Even 
the  cornstalks  stopped.  After  a  significant  pause 
they  began  again  ;  they  seemed  to  raise  their  voices 
in  agitation. 

"  What  in  the  world  are  they  talkin'  about  ?  "  she 
said  impatiently.  She  shut  the  window,  and  came 
back  into  the  middle  of  the  room.  The  corn-cake 
was  burning.  The  coffee  must  be  set  off.  The  sup- 
per would  be  spoiled.  She  looked  at  the  Methodist 
clock.  Mr.  Cruden  and  the  Rev.  John  AYesley 
seemed  to  exchange  glances  over  its  head,  and  hers. 
It  lacked  seven  minutes  of  ten. 

"  But  it  is  n't  time  to  worry  yet !  " 

The  woman  and  the  clock  faced  each  other.  She 
sat  down  before  it.  What  was  the  use  in  freezing 
at  the  window,  to  hear  the  Rooster,  and  the  talking 
corn  ?  She  and  the  clock  would  have  it  out.  She 
crossed  her  work-worn  hands  upon  her  chocolate 
calico  lap  and  looked  the  thing  in  the  eye. 

Wliat  a  sviperior,  supercilious  clock  !  Wliat  a  the- 
ological, controversial  clock !  W^as  there  even  a 
clock  so  conscious  of  its  spiritual  advantages  ?  So 
sure  it  knew  the  will  of  the  Almighty  ?  So  confi- 
dent of  being  right  about  everything  ?  So  deter- 
mined to  be  up  and  at  it,  to  say  it  all,  to  insist  upon 
it,  to  rub  it  in  ? 

Five     minutes    before   ten  —  three  —  two.      Ten 


FOURTEEN  TO  ONE.  '    17 

o'clock.  Ten  o'clock,  said  in  a  loud,  clerical  tone,  as 
if  it  were  repeating  ten  of  the  Thirty-nine  Articles 
to  a  Bishop. 

''  But,  oh,  not  quite  time  to  worry  yet ! "  Ten 
minutes  past.  A  quarter  past.  Twenty  minutes. 
The  woman  and  the  clock  eyed  each  other  like  duel- 
ists. Twenty-five  minutes  past  ten.  Half-past  — 
Deborah  Matthews  gasped  for  breath.  She  turned 
her  back  on  the  clock  and  dashed  up  the  window 
full-length. 

The  night  seemed  blacker  than  ever.  A  cloud  had 
rolled  solemnly  over  the  mountain,  and  hung  darkly 
above  the  house.  The  stalks  of  corn  looked  like 
corpses.  But  they  talked  like  living  beings  still. 
They  put  their  heads  together  and  nodded.  As  she 
leaned  out,  trembling  and  panting,  a  flash  of  unsear 
sonable  lightning  darted  and  shot ;  it  revealed  the 
arm  of  the  locust  tree  pointing  down  the  road.  A 
low  mutter  of  distant  thunder  followed;  it  rolled 
away,  and  lapsed  into  a  stillness  that  shook  her  soul. 

She  came  back  to  her  chair  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  by  the  centre-table.  The  final  struggle  with 
hope  had  set  in.  It  seemed  as  if  the  clock  knew  this 
as  well  as  she.  The  ticking  filled  her  ears,  her 
brain,  her  veins,  her  being.  It  seemed  to  fill  the 
world. 

Half-past  ten.  It  was  as  if  some  spirit  appealed 
to  the  minister's  clock  :  Oh,  tell  her  so  softly  !  Say 
so,  gently  as  religious  love,  though  you  be  stern  to 
your  duty  as  religious  law.  Twenty-five  minutes  of 
eleven  —  a  quarter  of  — 

The  woman  has  ceased  to  look  the  clock  in  the 
eye.     It  has  conquered  her,  poor  thing ;  and,  now 


18  FOURTEEN  TO  ONE. 

that  it  has,  seems  sorry  for  her,  and  ticks  tenderly, 
as  if  it  would  turn  back  an  hour  if  it  could.  Her 
head  has  dropped  into  her  hands  ;  her  hands  to  her 
knees ;  her  body  to  the  floor.  Buried  in  the  cushions 
of  the  old  rocking-chair,  her  face  is  invisible.  Her 
hands  have  lifted  themselves  to  her  ears,  which  they 
press  violently.  She  herself  lies  crouched  like  a 
murdered  thing  upon  the  floor. 

Eleven  o'clock.  She  must  not,  can  not,  will  not 
bear  it.  Eleven  o'clock.  She  must,  she  can,  she 
shall.  Past  all  feminine  fright  and  nervousness, 
past  all  fancy,  and  waste  of  weak  vision,  and  prodi- 
gal anxiety,  past  all  doubt,  or  hope,  or  dispute,  it  is 
time  to  worry  now. 

Deborah  Matthews,  when  it  had  come  to  this, 
sprang  to  her  feet,  gave  one  piteous,  beaten  look  at 
the  clock,  then  stayed  to  look  at  nothing  more.  She 
flung  open  the  door,  not  delaying  to  lock  it  be- 
hind her,  and  dashed  out.  She  was  as  wild  as  a  girl, 
and  almost  as  agile.  She  ran  over  the  rocks,  and 
slipped  in  the  mud,  and  sunk  in  the  holes,  and  pushed 
into  the  cornfield,  and  thrust  out  her  hands  before 
her  to  brush  the  stalks  away,  and  stood  for  a  moment 
to  get  her  breath  underneath  the  locust  tree.  How 
persistently,  how  solemnly,  that  black  arm  pointed 
down  the  path.  She  felt  like  kneeling  to  it,  as  if  it 
were  an  offended  deity.  All  the  Pagan  in  her 
stirred.  Suddenly  the  Christian  rose  and  wrestled 
with  it. 

"  Lord  have  mercy !  "  she  moaned.  "  He  's  my 
husband.     We  've  been  married  thirty  years." 

"  Hain't  I  prayed  enough  ?  "  she  sobbed,  sinking 
on  her  knees,  in  the  mud,  among  the  corn.     "  Hain't 


FOURTEEN  TO  ONE.  19 

I  said  all  there 's  any  sense  in  sayin'  to  thee  ? 
What 's  the  use  in  pesterin'  God  ?  But,  oh,  to 
mercy,  if  thou  couldst  take  the  trouble  to  understand 
what  it  is  to  be  married  —  thirty  years  —  and  to  set 
here  in  the  cornfield  lookin'  for  a  murdered  husband. 
He  can't,"  said  Deborah  Matthews,  abruptly  starting 
to  her  feet.  "  God  ain't  a  woman.  It  ain't  in  na- 
ture.    He  caw'^f  understand." 

She  pushed  on,  past  the  burned  trees  and  oiit  to- 
wards the  highway.  It  was  very  dark.  It  was 
deadly  lonely.  It  was  as  still  as  horror.  Oh, 
there  — 

What  tidings  ?  For  good  or  for  ill,  they  had 
come  at  last.  Deep  in  the  distance  the  wheels  of  a 
bow-legged  wagon  rumbled  dully,  and  the  hoofs  of  a 
tired  horse  stumbled  on  the  half-frozen  ground. 
Far  down  the  road  she  could  see,  moving  steadily, 
a  little  sparkle,  like  a  star.  She  dared  not  go  to 
meet  it. 

Friend  or  foe  might  bear  the  news.  Let  it  come. 
It  must  find  her  where  she  was.  She  covered  her 
face  with  her  shawl,  and  stood  like  a  court-martialed 
soldier  before  the  final  shot. 

"  Deb-orah  ?  " 

Far  down  the  road  the  faint  cry  sounded.  Nearer, 
and  advancing,  the  dear  voice  cried.  He  was  used 
to  call  to  her  so  when  he  was  late,  that  she  might  be 
sure,  and  be  spared  all  possible  misery.  He  was  in- 
finitely tender  with  her.  The  Christianity  of  this 
old  minister  began  with  the  marriage  tie. 

"  Deb-orah  ?  Deborah,  my  dear  ?  Don't  be  fright- 
ened, Deborah.     I  'm  coming.     I  've  got  home." 

Kissing  and  clinging,  laughing  and  sobbing,  she 


20  FOURTEEN  TO  ONE. 

got  him  into  the  barn.  Whether  she  clambered  over 
the  wheels  to  him,  or  he  sprang  out  to  her,  whether 
she  rode,  or  walked,  or  flew,  she  could  not  have  told ; 
nor,  perhaps,  could  he.  He  was  as  pale  as  the  dead 
corn,  and  seemed  dazed,  stunned,  unnatural  to  her 
eye.  Hezekiah  probably  knew  better  than  either  of 
these  two  excited  old  people  how  they  together  got 
his  harness  off,  with  shaking  hands,  and  rolled  the 
wagon  into  the  shed,  and  locked  the  outbuildings, 
not  forgetting  the  supper  of  the  virtuous  horse  who 
rests  from  his  labors  after  fifteen  miles  on  a  Kennes- 
see  road,  and  at  the  age  of  thirty-one. 

"  Lock  the  doors,"  said  the  minister  abruptly, 
when  they  had  gone  into  the  house-j)lace.  "Lock 
up  everything.  Take  pains  about  it.  Give  me  some- 
thing to  eat  or  drink,  and  don't  ask  a  question  till  I 
get  rested." 

His  wife  turned  him  about,  full  in  the  firelight, 
gave  one  glance  at  his  face,  and  obeyed  him  to  the 
letter.  Perhaps,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  she 
did  not  ask  a  question.  His  mouth  had  a  drawn, 
ghastly  look,  and  his  sunken  eyes  did  not  seem  to 
see  her.  She  noticed  that  he  limped  more  than 
usual  as  he  crossed  the  room  to  lay  his  old  felt  hat 
on  the  barrel-top  beneath  the  library. 

"  You  are  used  up,"  she  said ;  ''  you  are  tuckered 
out !  Here,  drink  your  coffee,  Levi.  Here,  I  won't 
talk  to  you.  I  won't  say  a  word.  Drink,  Mr.  Mat- 
thews ;  do,  dear." 

He  drank  in  great  gulps  exhaustedly.  When  she 
came  up  with  the  corn-cake,  having  turned  her  back 
to  dish  it,  she  heard  a  little  clicking  sound,  and  saw 
that  his  right  hand  closed  over  something  which  he 
would  have  hidden  from  her. 


FOURTEEN  TO  ONE.  21 

It  was  the  old  pistol ;  he  was  loading  it,  rust  and 
all.  The  two  looked  at  each  other  across  the  dis- 
abled weapon. 

"  It 's  all  we  have,"  he  said.  "  A  man  must  de- 
fend his  own.  Don't  be  frightened,  Deborah.  I  '11 
take  care  of  you." 

"  You  might  as  well  out  with  it,"  said  the  old  lady, 
distinctly.  "  I  'm  ready  to  hear.  I  'm  not  a  coward. 
New  Hampshire  girls  ain't.  I  should  think  you  'd 
know  I  'd  been  through  enough,  in  this  God-forsaken 
coimtry  —  for  that." 

"  Well,"  slowly.  '•'  Well,  I  suppose  you  're  about 
right,  Deborah.  The  fact  is,  I  've  had  a  narrow  es- 
cape of  it.  I  was  warned  at  the  meeting.  We  had 
a  gratifying  meeting.  The  Spirit  descended  on  us. 
Several  arose  to  confess  themselves  anxious  "  — 

"  What  were  you  warned  about  ?  "  interrupted  his 
wife.  "  Never  mind  the  anxious  seat.  I  've  sat  on 
it  long  enough  for  one  night.  What 's  the  matter  ? 
Who  Avarned  you  ?  " 

"  I  was  warned  against  the  Ku  Klux  Klan,  that 's 
all,"  returned  the  parson  simply,  picking  up  the 
crumbs  of  corn-cake  from  his  knees,  and  eating  them 
to  "  save  "  the  bread.  "  For  a  disbanded  organiza- 
tion they  're  pretty  lively,  yet,  round  these  parts. 
They  lay  in  wait  for  me  on  the  road  home.  I  had  to 
come  round  over  the  mountain,  the  other  way.  It 
was  pretty  rough.  I  did  n't  know  but  they  'd  detail  a 
squad  there.  It  was  pretty  late.  The  harness  broke 
twice,  and  I  had  to  mend  it.  It  took  a  good  while. 
And  I  knew  that  you  "  — 

"  Never  mind  me ! "  cried  Mrs.  Matthews,  with 
that  snap  of  the  voice  which  gives  the  accent  of 


22  FOURTEEN  TO  ONE. 

crossness  to  mortal  anxiety.     "  Tell  me  who  warned 
you.     Tell  uie  everytliin',  this  minute  ! " 

"  That  's  about  all,  Deborah.  A  colored  brother 
warned  me.  He  has  been  desirous  of  being  present 
at  all  the  means  of  grace,  of  late.  But  for  the  — 
the  state  of  public  sentiment,  he  would  have  done  so. 
He  is  that  convert  brought  to  me  privately,  a  few 
weeks  ago,  by  our  new  brother.  Brother  Memmiu- 
ger." 

"  I  don't  know  's  I  half  like  that  Brother  Mem- 
minger,"  returned  the  wife.  ''He  got  converted 
pretty  fast.  And  he  's  a  stranger  in  these  parts. 
His  speech  ain't  our  speech,  either.  But  it 's  a 
Southern  name.     Did  he  warn  you  ?  " 

"  He  w^as  not  present  to-night  at  the  dispensing  of 
the  Word,"  replied  the  minister.     "No,  I  was  taken 
one  side,  after  the  benediction,  without  the  building, 
by  the  colored  brother,  and  warned,  on  peril  of  my 
life,  —  and  on  peril  of  his,  —  not  to  go  home  to-night, 
and  to  tell  no  man  of  the  warning." 
"  But  you  did  —  you  came  home  ! " 
"  Certainly,  my  dear ;  you  were  here." 
She  clung  to  him,  and  he  kissed  her.     Neither 
spoke  for  many  minutes.     It  seemed  as  if  he  could 
not  trust  himself.     She  was  the  first  to  put  in  whis- 
pered words  the  thought  which  rocked  the  hearts  of 
both. 

"When  they  don't  find  you  —  what  will  they 
do?" 

"  My  dear  wife  —  my  dear  wife,  God  knows." 
"  What  shall  you  do  ?     What  can  w^e  do  ?  " 
"  I  think,"  said  the  minister  in  his  gentle  voice, 
"  that  we  may  as  well  conduct  family  prayers." 


FOURTEEN   TO  ONE.  23 

"  Very  well,"  said  his  wife,  "  if  you  've  had  your 
supper.     I  '11  put  away  the  dishes  first." 

She  did  so,  methodically  and  quietl}',  as  if  nothing 
out  of  the  common  course  of  events  had  happened, 
or  were  liable  to.  Her  matter-of-fact,  housewifely 
motions  calmed  him,  as  she  thought  they  would. 
It  made  things  seem  natural,  homelike,  safe,  as  if 
danger  were  a  delirious  dread,  and  home  and  love 
and  peace  the  foundations  of  life,  after  war,  in  Ken- 
nessee. 

When  she  had  washed  her  hands  and  taken  off  her 
apron,  she  came  back  to  the  lounge  and  brought  the 
family  Bible  with  her,  and  the  hymn-book.  They 
sang  together  one  verse  of  their  favorite  hymn, 
"  How  firm  a  foundation,"  with  the  quavering,  un- 
trained voices  that  had  "  led  the  choirs  "  of  moun- 
tain meetings  for  almost  thirty  years  of  patient,  self- 
denying  missionary  life.  Then  the  parson  read,  in  a 
firm  voice,  a  psalm,  —  the  ninety -first ;  and  then  he 
took  the  hand  of  his  wife  in  his,  and  they  both  knelt 
down  by  the  lounge,  and  he  prayed  aloud  his  usual, 
simple,  trustful,  evening  prayer. 

"  0  Lord,  our  heavenly  Father,  thy  mercies  are 
new  every  morning,  and  fresh  every  evening.  We 
thank  thee  that  though  danger  walketh  in  darkness, 
it  shall  not  come  nigh  us.  We  bless  thee  that  thou 
art  so  mindful  of  thine  unworthy  servant  and  hand- 
maiden. We  thank  thee  that  for  nearly  thirty  years 
we  have  dwelt  in  conjugal  love  and  peace  beneath 
our  comfortable  roof.  We  thank  thee  that  no  dis- 
aster hath  rendered  us  homeless,  and  that  the  hand 
of  violence  hath  not  been  raised  against  us.  We 
pray  thee  that  thou  wilt  withhold  it  from  us  this 


24  FOUBTEEN  TO  ONE. 

night,  that  we  may  sleep  in  peace,  and  awake  in 
safety  "  — 

''Levi/" 

A  curdling  whisper  in  his  ear  interrupted  the  old 
man's  prayer.  *'  Levi !  There  are  footstejjs  in  the 
corn  I " 

"  And  awake  in  safety,"  proceeded  the  minister 
firmly,  "  to  bless  thy  tender  care  "  — 

He  did  not  rise  from  his  knees,  but  prayed  on  in  a 
strong  voice.  So  well  trained  to  the  religious  habit 
was  the  woman  that  she  did  not  cry  out,  nor  inter- 
rupt him  again,  nor  did  she  even  arise  from  her 
knees  before  the  old  lounge. 

Suddenly  voices  clashed,  cries  upsprang,  and  a  din 
surrounded  the  house. 

"  Come  out !  Come  out !  Out  Avith  the  Yankee 
parson !  Out  with  the  nigger-praying  preacher  ! 
Show  yourself ! " 

The  old  man's  hand  tightened  upon  the  hand  of 
his  old  wife ;  but  neither  rose  from  their  knees. 
The  confusion  without  redoubled.  Calls  grew  to 
yells.  Heavy  steps  dashed  foraging-  about  the  house. 
Cries  of  alarm  from  the  outbuildings  showed  that 
the  animals,  which  were  the  main  support  of  the 
simple  home,  were  attacked,  perhaps  destroyed. 
Then  came  the  demand :  — 

"  Come  out !  Come  out  to  us !  Show  yourself, 
you  sneaking,  Yankee  parson  !     Out  to  us  !  " 

A  terrific  knock  thundered  on  the  door.  Steadily 
the  calm  voice  within  prayed  on :  — 

"  We  trust  thee,  0  Lord,  and  we  bless  thee  for  thy 
mercy  to  us  ward  "  — 

"  Open  the  door,  or  we  will  pull  your  shanty  down 
to  hell ! " 


FOURTEEN   TO  ONE.  25 

"  Preserve  us,  0  Lord,  for  thy  loving-kindness  en- 
duretli  forever  "  — 

"  Open  tlie  door, you,  or  we  'l!  set  the  torches 

to  it,  and  burn  you  out ! " 

"  Protect  us,  0  God  "  — 

The  light  lock  yielded,  and  the  old  door  broke 
down.  With  a  roar  the  mob  rushed  in.  They  were 
not  over  sixteen,  but  they  seemed  sixty,  storming 
into  the  little  room.  They  were  all  masked,  and  all 
armed  to  the  teeth. 

Before  the  sight  which  met  his  eyes  the  leader  of 
the  posse  fell  back.  He  was  a  tall,  powerful  fellow, 
evidently  by  nature  a  commander,  and  the  men  fell 
back  behind  him. 

"  For  Christ's  sake.  Amen,"  said  the  parson.  He 
rose  from  his  knees,  and  his  wife  rose  with  him.  The 
two  old  people  confronted  the  desperadoes  silently. 
When  the  leader  came  closer  to  them  he  saw  that 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Matthews's  hands  were  both  occupied. 
With  the  left  he  grasped  the  hand  of  his  wife ;  in 
the  right  he  held  his  rusty  pistol.  The  hymn-book 
had  fallen  to  the  floor;  but  the  family  Bible  had 
been  reverently  laid  with  care  upon  the  lounge,  its 
leaves  yet  open  at  the  ninety-first  psalm. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  the  parson,  speaking  for  the 
first  time,  "  I  would  not  seem  inhospitable,  but  the 
manner  of  your  entering  has  perturbed  my  wife  and 
interrupted  our  evening  prayer,  which  it  is  our  cus- 
tom never  to  cut  short  for  any  insufficient  cause. 
Kow  I  am  ready  to  receive  you.  Explain  to  me  your 
errand." 

"  It 's  a short  one,"  said  a  voice   from   the 

gang;    "a  rope   and    a  tree   will   explain    it  easy 
enough." 


26  FOURTEEN   TO  ONE. 

"  And  nothing  less  !  "  cried  a  hoarse  man.  "  We 
have  n't  come  on  any  boys'  play  this  time.  We  've 
had  chase  enough  to  find  you  for  one  night." 

"  That 's  so.  It 's  no  fool's  errand,  you  bet.  We 
ain't  a  tar-and-feathering  party.    We  mean  business." 

"  Gentlemen  !  gentlemen  ! "  pleaded  the  parson. 
He  took  the  hand  of  his  wife  as  he  spoke,  and  lifted 
it  to  his  shrunken  breast,  and  held  it  there,  deli- 
cately. 

It  was  the  piteous  instinct  of  manly  protection 
powerless  to  protect. 

"In  the  name  of  civil  justice,  0  my  neighbors, 
wherein  have  I  offended  you  ?  " 

"  That 's  our  business.  It 's  a  serious  one,  too," 
cried  the  hoarse  man.  "  Your pious  prayer- 
meetings  have  been  a  nurser}^  of  sentiments  we  don't 

approve,  that 's  all.     You  've  admitted  a darky 

among  respectable  white  citizens.  Come  now,  have 
n't  you  ?     Own  up  !  " 

"  Certainly,"  replied  the  parson  promptly.  "  There 
was  one  colored  brother  present  at  the  means  of 
grace  on  one  or  two  occasions.  I  regretted  that  my 
congregation  did  not  altogether  welcome  him.  He 
was  converted  by  the  mercy  of  God,  beneath  my 
ministrations.  Would  ye  that  I  denied  him  the  poor 
benefit  of  my  prayers  ?  Nay,  then,  as  God  hears  me, 
I  did  not,  nor  I  would  not." 

The  old  man's  dim  eyes  flashed.  He  raised  his 
rusty  pistol,  examined  it,  and  laid  it  down.  Before 
sixteen  well-armed  men  he  began  to  comprehend  the 
uselessness  of  his  old  weapon.  He  looked  upon  the 
array  of  grotesque  and  ghastly  masks  steadily ;  they 
rose   like   a   row   of    demons   before   his   biblically 


FOURTEEN   TO  ONE.  27 

trained  imagination.  Mr.  Matthews  believed  in  de- 
mons, in  a  simple,  unquestioning  way. 

"  And  you  've  preached  against  that  which  was  no 
business  of  yours.  Come  now,  own  to  it !  You  've 
meddled  with  the  politics  and  justice  of  the  State. 
You  have  preached  against  the  movements  of  the 
Klan  —  what 's  left  of  it.  That  is  n't  much.  It 's 
done  for.  We  're  only  a  few  gentlemen,  looking  after 
things  on  our  own  hook." 

"  I  own  to  it,"  said  the  parson  quietly.  "  I  have 
delivered  a  discourse  upon  the  topic  of  your  organi- 
zation. I  felt  called  of  Heaven  to  do  it.  Is  that  all 
ye  have  against  me  ?  I  pray  you,  for  my  wife's  sake, 
who  is  disquieted  by  your  presence,  as  you  see,  to 
leave  us  to  ourselves  and  go  jouv  way  —  from  under 
my  roof." 

"  Have  him  out !  Eight  smart,  now  ! "  yelled  the 
hoarse  man.  "  Have  him  out  without  more  words  ! 
A  rope  !     A  rope !     Where  's  a  rope  ?  " 

In  a  moment  there  was  melee  in  the  house.  Cries 
arose  to  the  effect  that  the  rope  was  left  in  the  corn. 
But  a  fellow  who  had  been  browsing  about  outside 
ran  in  with  a  rope  in  his  hand  and  handed  it  to  the 
hoarse  man.  The  rope  was  Mrs.  Matthews's  clothes- 
line —  Hezekiah's  reins.  The  hoarse  man  gave  it  to 
the  leader  with  an  oath.  The  leader  seemed  to  hesi- 
tate, and  conferred  in  a  whisper  with  the  hoarse  man 
and  with  others  ;  but  he  was  apparently  overborne  in 
his  hesitation  ;  he  took  the  rope,  and  advanced  with 
a  certain  respect  to  the  parson,  death  in  his  hand, 
but  who  knew  what  pity  in  his  heart  ?  The  mask 
hid  it  if  any  were  there.  The  noise  from  the  gang 
now  increased  brutally.     Cries,  oaths,  curses,  calls 


28  FOURTEEN   TO  OXE. 

to  death  resounded  through  the  pure  and  peaceful 
room.  The  hoarse  man  lassoed  the  rope,  and  threw 
it  around  the  parson's  neck.  At  this  moment  a  ter- 
rible sound  rang  above  the  confusion. 

It  was  the  cry  of  the  wife. 

She  had  possessed  herself  magnificently  up  to  this 
time ;  the  Puritan  restraint  set  upon  her  white,  old 
face  ;  she  had  not  said  a  word.  No  murderer  of 
them  all  had  seen  a  tear  upon  her  withered  cheek. 
But  now  nature  had  her  way.  She  flung  herself  to 
her  knees  before  the  ruffians  ;  then  upon  her  hus- 
band's neck  ;  back  upon  her  knees  —  and  so,  in  a  pas- 
sion wavering  between  agony  and  entreaty,  pleaded 
with  them.  She  cried  to  them  for  the  love  of  Heaven, 
for  the  love  of  God,  for  the  sake  of  "  Jesus  Christ  his 
Son,  their  Saviour,"  so  she  put  it,  with  the  lack  of 
tact  and  instinct  for  scriptural  phraseology  belong- 
ing to  her  devout,  secluded  life. 

The  phrase  raised  a  laugh. 

She  cried  to  them  for  the  love  of  their  own  wives, 
for  the  sake  of  their  mothers,  by  the  thought  of  their 
homes,  for  the  sake  of  wedded  love,  and  by  his  hon- 
orable life  who  had  ministered  respected  among  them 
for  nearly  thirty  years  —  by  the  misery  of  widow- 
hood, and  by  the  sacredness  of  age.  In  her  piteous 
pleading  she  continued  to  give  to  the  murderers,  at 
the  very  verge  of  the  deed,  the  noblest  name  known 
to  the  usages  of  safe  and  honorable  society. 

"  Gentlemen  !  gentlemen  /  For  the  sake  of  his 
gray  hair !     Eor  the  sake  of  an  old  wife  "  — 

But  there  they  pushed  her  oif.  They  struck  her 
hands  from  their  knees;  they  tore  her  arms  from 
his  neck,  and  so  were  dragging  him  out,  when  the 
parson  said  in  a  clear  voice  :  — 


FOURTEEN  TO  ONE.  29 

"Men !  —  ye  are  at  least  men,  —  give  way  to  the  de- 
mand of  my  soul  before  you  hurl  it  to  your  Maker. 
I  pray  you  to  leave  me  alone,  for  the  space  of  a  mo- 
ment, with  this  lady,  my  wife,  that  we  may  part  one 
from  the  other,  and  no  man  witness  our  parting." 

At  a  signal  from  the  big  leader  the  gang  obeyed 
this  request.  The  men  hustled  out  of  the  broken 
door.     The  leader  stood  within  it. 

"  Watch  'em  !  Watch  'em  like  a  lynx  ! "  cried  the 
hoarse  man.     But  the  leader  turned  his  back. 

"Deborah!  Kiss  me,  my  dear.  You've  been  a 
good  wife  to  me.  I  think  you  'd  better  go  to  your 
brother  —  in  New  Hampshire  —  I  don't  know.  I 
have  n't  had  much  time  to  plan  it  out  for  you.  Tell 
him  I  would  have  written  to  him  if  I  had  had  time. 
Tell  him  to  take  good  care  of  you.  Oh  —  God  bless 
you,  my  dear.  Why  don't  you  speak  to  me  ?  Why 
don't  you  kiss  me  ?  Your  arms  don't  stay  about  my 
neck  —  What !  Can't  hold  them  there  —  at  this  last 
minute  ?  Pray  for  me,  Deborah.  Deborah  !  why 
don't  you  answer  me  ?  0  my  wife,  my  wife,  7iii/ 
wife  !  " 

But  she  was  past  answering;  past  the  sacred 
agony  of  that  last  embrace.  She  had  dropped  from 
his  breast,  and  lay  straight  and  still  as  the  dead  at 
his  feet. 

"  God  is  good,"  said  the  old  man  solemnly.  "  Let 
her  be  as  she  is.  I  pray  you  do  not  disturb  her. 
Leave  her  to  the  swoon  which  He  has  mercifully 
provided  for  her  relief  at  this  moment  —  and  do 
with  me  as  ye  will,  before  she  awakens." 

A  certain  perceptible  awe  fell  upon  the  gang  as 
the  old  man  stepped  around  the  unconscious  form  of 
his  wife  and  presented  himself  in  the  doorway. 


30  FOURTEEN  TO  ONE. 

"  He  seems  to  be  a  grateful  old  cove,"  said  one 
man  in  a  low  voice.  "  I  don't  know  's  I  ever  heard 
a  feller  in  bis  circumstances  give  God  a  good  name 
before." 

*'  No  sniveling  !  "  cried  the  hoarse  man.  "  Have 
it  over  ! " 

They  took  him  out,  and  arranged  to  have  it  over 
as  quickly  as  might  be.  It  must  be  admitted  that 
the  posse  were  nervous.  They  did  not  enjoy  that 
night's  work  as  much  as  they  had  expected  to. 
They  were  in  a  hurry  now  to  be  done  with  it  and 
away. 

The  old  man  offered  no  useless  resistance.  He 
walked  with  dignity,  and  Avithout  protest.  He 
limped  more  than  usual.  His  head  v/as  bare.  His 
gray  hair  blew  in  the  rising  wind.  The  rope  was 
around  his  neck. 

Some  one  had  wheeled  out  the  blue  wagon  and 
rolled  it  under  the  locust  tree.  As  this  was  done  the 
old  horse  whinnied  for  his  master  from  the  stall. 
The  parson  was  pushed  upon  the  cart.  Short  work 
was  made  of  it.  As  the  leader  of  the  gang  stooped 
to  help  the  hoarse  man  fling  the  rope  over  the 
burned  bare  limb  of  the  tree,  and  to  adjust  the  noose 
about  the  old  man's  neck,  —  which  he  made  insis- 
tence on  doing  himself,  —  a  mask  dropped.  It  was 
the  face  of  the  chief  himself  which  was  thus  laid 
bare,  and  alas,  and  behold,  it  was  even  no  other  face 
than  the  face  of  — 

"  Brother  Memminger  ! "  cried  the  old  minister, 
speaking  for  the  first  time  since  he  had  been  dragged 
from  the  house.  The  leader  restored  his  mask  to  his 
downcast  face,  with  evident  embarrassment. 


FOURTEEN  TO  ONE.  31 

"  You  !  "  said  the  parson.  "  I  thought,"  he  added 
gently,  "  that  you  had  found  a  Christian  hope.  You 
communed  Avith  me  at  the  Sacrament  two  weeks 
ago.  I  administered  it  to  you.  I  am  —  sorry,  Bro- 
ther Memminger." 

The  fellow  muttered  something,  Heaven  knew 
what,  and  fell  back  a  step  or  two.  Some  one  else 
prepared  the  rope  to  swing  the  old  man  off.  He 
who  was  known  as  Brother  Memminger  dropped  to 
the  rear  of  the  gang,  surveyed  it  carefully,  then  ad- 
vanced to  his  place  at  the  front,  nearest  to  the  vic- 
tim. Every  man  awaited  his  orders.  He  was  their 
chief.  They  had  organized  and  they  obeyed,  even 
in  their  decline,  a  military  government.  There  was 
a  moment's  pause. 

"  I  would  like,"  said  the  doomed  man  gently,  "  a 
moment  to  commend  my  soul  to  God." 

This  was  granted  him,  and  he  stood  with  his  gray 
head  bowed.  His  hands  Avere  tied  behind  him.  His 
face  was  not  muffled  ;  it  had  a  high  expression.  His 
lips  moved.  Those  who  were  nearest  thought  they 
heard  him  murmur  the  first  words  of  the  Lord's 
Prayer.  "Hallowed  be  Thy  name,"  he  said,  and 
paused. 

He  said  no  more,  nor  seemed  to  wish  it.  So  they 
ranged  themselves,  every  man  of  them,  to  swing  him 
off,  each  standing  with  both  hands  upon  the  rope, 
which  had  been  spliced  by  another  to  a  considerable 
length.  He  who  was  called  Memminger  stood,  as  he 
was  expected,  to  give  the  final  order.  There  were 
fourteen  of  them  —  and  Memminger  the  chief.  Be- 
side him  stood  an  idle  fellow,  masked  like  the  rest, 
but  apparently  a  servant,  a  tool  of  Memminger's, 


32  FOURTEEN   TO  ONE. 

who  had  especial  service  for  him,  perhaps.  If  the 
old  man  struggled  too  much  —  or  an  accident  hap- 
pened —  it  was  well  to  have  an  unoccupied  hand. 
Memminger,  in  fact,  had  been  well  known  in  the 
gang  for  a  good  while,  and  was  implicitly  trusted 
and  obeyed. 

In  putting  their  hands  to  the  rope  every  man  of 
them  had  of  necessity  to  lay  down  his  arms,  both 
hands  being  clenched  upon  the  rope,  for  a  strong 
pull.  They  meant  to  break  the  old  man's  neck,  and 
be  done  with  it.  Keally,  nobody  cared  to  torture 
him. 

'( \Ye  're  ready,"  said  the  hoarse  man.  "  Give  the 
signal,  Cap'n.     Hurry  up." 

The  light  of  their  lanterns  and  torches  revealed 
the  old  man  clearly  —  the  long  arm  of  the  locust 
above  his  head  —  the  stormy  sky  above.  Death  was 
no  paler  than  the  parson,  but  he  did  not  struggle. 

His  lips  moved  still  in  silent  prayer.  His  eyes 
were  closed.  The  men  bent  to  the  rope.  The  chief 
raised  his  hand.  The  last  signal  hung  upon  his  next 
motion. 

Then  there  was  a  cry.  Then  his  mask  dropped, 
and  from  the  face  of  the  man  beside  him  another 
fell,  and  it  was  the  face  of  a  negro,  obedient  and 
mute.  Then  the  powerful  figure  of  the  leader 
straightened.  His  familiar  eye  flashed  with  a  per- 
fectly unfamiliar  expression.  Two  muscular  arms 
shot  out  from  his  body ;  each  hand  held  a  revolver 
sprung  at  full-cock  and  aimed. 

'^  Boys  !  "  he  cried  in  an  awful  voice,  '^  I  am  an 
qpicer  of  the  United  States  /  and  the  first  7na?i  of  you 
tvho  lets  go  that  rojpe,  drops  !  " 


FOURTEEN   TO  ONE.  33 

In  an  instant,  armed  as  he  was,  he  covered  them, 
every  man  of  them  unarmed  and  standing  as  they 
were.     His  negro  servant  sprang  to  his  aid. 

"  The  first  man  of  you  who  stirs  a  muscle  on  that 
rope  dies  !"  thundered  the  quasi  Brother  Memmin- 
ger.  "  I  am  a  deputy  marshal,  authorized  by  the 
National  Government  to  investigate  and  hasten  the 
disbanding  of  the  Ku  Klux  Klan,  and,  in  the  name 
of  the  Stars  and  Stripes,  and  law  and  order,  I  arrest 
you,  every  man  !  " 

And,  in  the  name  of  simple  wonder  and  astound- 
ing history,  it  was  done.  The  negro  servant,  whose 
person  bulged  wuth  hidden  handcuffs,  bound  the  men, 
one  at  a  time,  fourteen  of  them,  while  his  master's 
experienced  weapons  covered  the  gang.  They  be- 
haved with  the  composure  of  intelligent  and  dum- 
founded  men.    One  of  them  ventured  an  observation. 

It  was  the  hoarse  man.     He  said :   " 

you  —  to  ,"  struggled  mightily  with  his 


handcuffs,  and  then  held  his  tongue. 

The  whole  posse,  by  means  of  this  simple  strata- 
gem, and  by  the  help  of  that  cowardice  elemental 
in  all  brutes,  was  marched  to  the  nearest  sheriff; 
then  delivered  intact  to  the  power  of  the  law  which 
the  great  mass  of  Kennessee  citizens  were  ready  to 
respect  and  glad  to  see  defended.  The  country  rang 
with  the  deed.  Then  whispers  arose  to  hush  it,  for 
shame's  sake.  But  it  crept  to  Northern  ears,  and  I 
record  it  as  it  was  related  to  me. 

"  How  is  it.  Parson  ?  "  said  Deacon  Memminger 
with  a  bright,  shrewd  smile,  as  he  cut  the  old  man 
down,  and  helped  him,  trembling  as  he  was,  to  dis- 
mount the  shaky  cart.     "  How  is  it,  sir  ?     Are  you 


34  FOURTEEN  TO  ONE. 

sorry  I  came  to  church  at  your  place  —  now  ?  I 
thought  —  under  the  circumstances  —  and  I  was 
bound  to  save  you.  I  and  my  darky  boy  have  been 
ferreting  out  this  thing  for  a  hundred  days.  I  joined 
'em  the  first  week  I  came  down  here.  I  came  on 
from  Washington  to  do  it.  We  mean  to  make  a 
thorough  job  of  it  —  and  I  guess  we  've  done  for  'em, 
this  time.  You  '11  excuse  me,  sir,  but  I  've  got  to 
get  'em  to  the  sheriff,  and —  I  'd  go  back  and  see  my 
wife,  if  I  were  you." 

She  came  to  herself  and  to  her  misery  soon  enough, 
lying  there  upon  the  floor  beside  the  lounge.  The 
first  thing  which  she  saw  distinctly  was  the  Bible, 
opened  at  the  psalm  which  has  calmed  more  souls  in 
shocks  of  danger,  and  in  the  convulsions  of  lawless 
times,  than  any  other  written  words  known  to  the 
literatures  of  the  race. 

But  the  first  thing  which  she  heard  was  his  pre- 
cious voice,  pitched  low,  and  modulated  tenderly,  so 
as  not  to  frighten  her. 

"  Deb-orah  !  Deb-orah !  Don't  be  scared,  my  dear. 
They  have  not  hurt  me  —  and  I  'm  coming  back  to 
you." 


THE  BELL  OF  SAINT  BASIL'S. 

It  was  a  cold  morning  —  for  Virginia;  and,  as 
everybody  knows,  Virginia  has  a  plenty  of  them. 
The  frost  bent  the  fennel  so  heavily  that  it  lay  over 
like  fine  silver-work  upon  the  ground,  where  a  flurry 
of  snow  skipped  before  the  gusts.  The  wind  itself 
was  restless  and  ill-natured,  like  a  wind  that  had  got 
into  the  wrong  climate  by  mistake,  and  was  hurrying 
to  go  somewhere  else.  Ice  lay  in  opaque  sheets  upon 
the  pools  and  swamps,  and  the  air  stung.  There 
was  no  sun.  As  early  as  seven  o'clock  the  grayness 
of  the  sky  took  on  a  determined  look,  as  that  of  a 
sky  which  meant  business.  One  felt  something  of 
the  same  unreasonable  resentment  before  it  that  one 
feels  before  a  hard  creditor,  who  would,  on  the 
whole,  prefer  to  make  one  uncomfortable  rather  than 
give  grace,  but  who  is  nevertheless  entirely  justifi- 
able, and  one  knows  it.  If  it  was  cold  out-of-doors, 
it  was  colder  within.  When  Virginia  shivers,  she  is 
always  taken  by  surprise.  She  looks  out  through 
her  half-built  houses  as  if  she  were  a  soft  brown- 
eyed  girl  in  a  gauze  dress,  protesting  that  she  is  cold, 
and  wondering  why. 

The  weather  came  in  at  the  doors ;  the  weather 
came  in  at  the  windows ;  the  weather  rushed  in 
under  the  house  ;  cracks  in  the  walls  welcomed  it ; 
crevices  in  the  posts  betrayed  one  to  it ;  the  wide 


36  THE  BELL  OF  SAINT  BASWS. 

chimneys,  where  the  fires  lay  unlighted,  gulped  it 
in  ;  the  floors  were  flooded  with  it. 

President  Peyton's  eminently  respectable  if  eco- 
nomical house  seemed  to  keep  swallowing  little 
draughts,  like  a  person  with  a  sore  throat,  whom  it 
hurts,  but  who  can't  stop. 

When  President  Peyton  got  out  of  his  old-fash- 
ioned four-posted  bed,  that  morning,  pushing  aside 
the  curtains  of  chintz  and  mosquito-netting  with  a 
scholarly,  aged  hand,  he  hung  his  clothes  over  one 
arm,  and  went  to  find  what  the  thermometer  was  be- 
fore he  put  them  on.  The  thermometer  hung  over 
the  veranda  roof,  as  it  had  for  thirty  years,  —  as  it 
would  for  how  many  more  ?  —  upon  a  rusty  tack  in 
the  same  spot,  beneath  the  window-sill,  in  the  south- 
erly exposure. 

"  You  're  letting  in  the  cold,  Mr.  Peyton,"  pleaded 
a  vague  feminine  voice  from  behind  the  bed-curtains. 
"  I  'm  frozen  to  death.  I  'm  cold  enough,  Mr.  Pey- 
ton, to  —  to  —  I  'm  cold  enough  to  —  swear." 

"  Maria, !  "  ejaculated  the  old  man  severely. 

"  Why,  Mr.  Peyton  !  "  cried  his  wife.  It  was  such 
an  event  when  her  husband  called  her  Maria  that 
the  poor  old  lady  was  frightened.  She  had  known 
it  to  happen  but  a  few  times  in  many  years  :  once 
Avhen  he  was  very  angry  with  her  because  she  had 
burned  a  manuscript  lecture  of  his  by  mistake ;  and 
another  time  when  they  were  in  great  trouble,  but 
then  he  had  said  it  so  kindly  that  she  had  never  for- 
gotten it. 

That  had  happened  about  this  time  of  yea,T,  toward 
the  last  of  January.  She  could  not  have  told  pre- 
cisely when.     She  had  the  indifference  or  lapse  of 


THE  BELL  OF  SAINT  BASIL'S.  37 

memory  about  dates  that  is  apt  to  be  characteristic  of 
age.  If  life  has  been  full,  especially  if  life  has  been 
sad,  what  matters  a  day  more  or  less  ?  Sentiments, 
sensations,  affections,  groAV  more  important ;  time, 
as  we  approach  eternity,  less.  It  dwindles  away 
from  us  as  the  two-thousand-year-old  heroine  of  a 
popular  romance  shrank  to  the  size  of  a  little  ignoble 
animal  when  her  hour  came. 

Their  trouble  had  been  sore  at  Mrs.  Peyton's  heart 
for  many  weeks ;  it  had  eaten  there  like  a  fresh  hurt 
made  by  the  turning  of  an  old  barb.  Her  wound 
had  never  cicatrized.  The  nature  of  it  made  this 
impossible.  She  had  sat  alone  a  good  deal  at  twi- 
light, lately,  crying  in  her  rocking-chair  by  the 
light -wood  fire,  in  the  shadowy  old  parlor,  before 
the  President  came  in  from  the  study,  at  precisely 
five  minutes  before  six,  and  said,  — 

"  Mrs.  Peyton,  we  will  now  dine." 

But  she  did  not  tell  Mr.  Peyton.  Mr.  Peyton  had 
strange  ways.  He  loved  her,  of  course ;  it  was  the 
proper  thing  for  husbands  to  love  their  wives ;  but 
though  they  had  been  married  forty  years,  she  stood 
in  awe  of  him  yet.  When  he  went  to  Eichmond,  or 
even  as  far  as  Baltimore,  on  a  journey,  he  always 
wrote  to  her.  He  began  the  letters,  "  My  dear  Mrs. 
Peyton,"  and  signed  himself,  "  Yours  very  truly." 

Maria  Peyton  had  read  her  love-story  in  a  dead 
language,  poor  thing.  A  simple,  feminine,  cuddling 
woman,  who  would  have  let  a  man  beat  her,  and  been 
happy,  if  only  he  would  have  stroked  her  like  a  kit- 
ten now  and  then,  she  might  as  well  have  married 
the  Classical  Dictionary  or  Crabb's  Synonyms  as  the 
President  of  Saint  Basil's,  in  Chester,  Virginia. 


38  THE  BELL  OF  SAINT  BASIL'S. 

So  she  did  not  tell  her  husband  when  she  cried,  or 
why.  It  was  one  of  the  President's  "  ways  "  not  to 
talk  about  their  trouble.  She  wished  he  would.  It 
might  even,  she  thought,  have  been  more  bearable. 
If  now  and  then  she  could  have  said,  "  Anthony,  do 
you  remember?"  or,  "My  dear,  it  was  so  many 
years  ago,  about  this  time  ;  "  or,  "  I  did  n't  mean  to 
cry,  but  I  was  thinking  of "  —  Biit  she  could  do 
nothing  of  the  kind.  For  twenty  years  the  old  man 
had  not  spoken  to  his  wife  of  what  befell  them.  He 
never  tried  to  explain  to  her  that  this  had  become 
almost  pathologically  impossible.  With  any  allu- 
sion to  certain  events  a  physical  pain  so  deadly 
griped  his  heart  that  he  avoided  it,  practically,  as 
one  would  avoid  a  bayonet,  though  he  was  quite  a 
healthy  man.  But  he  supposed  women  could  not 
understand  such  things.  Expression  was  their  law. 
The  reserve  of  manhood,  the  reticence  of  vigorous 
anguish,  they  knew  not.  It  was  the  nature  of  their 
sex,  he  reasoned.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  his 
wife  had  achieved  a  silence  sadder,  because  more  un- 
natural, than  his  own.  So,  under  the  solemn  arch 
of  that  massive  grief,  which  should  have  sheltered  a 
consolatory  and  compensatory  oneness,  these  two 
stricken  people  walked  apart. 

They  had  a  boarder  at  the  Peytons',  and  Avhen  the 
President  and  his  wife  came  down  to  breakfast,  that 
January  morning,  the  boarder  said  it  was  very  cold. 
She  said  she  did  n't  believe  it  was  colder  than  this 
in  New  York.  She  was  in  the  habit  of  saying  this. 
She  added  that  she  had  coughed  all  night,  and  that 
Abraham  had  not  brought  her  half  enough  wood. 
This,   too,   was    a   familiar    remark.     Mrs.    Peyton 


THE  BELL  OF  SAINT  BASIL'S.  39 

apologized,  and  said  she  would  attend  to  it,  but  the 
President  bowed  politely,  with  a  vague  smile.  He 
had  ceased  to  give  his  attention  to  the  conversational 
gifts  of  the  Northern  boarder,  whom  he  regarded  as, 
on  the  whole,  the  most  depressing  result  of  the  late 
civil  war.  Who  had  ever  heard  of  a  Peyton  keep- 
ing boarders  ?  Even  when  you  reduced  the  devasta- 
tion to  the  singular  number,  he  could  not  regard  a 
boarder  as  other  than  a  social  and  sociological  phe- 
nomenon, when  coughing  at  his  own  distinguished 
table  and  complaining  of  the  mattresses  in  his  own 
hospitable  guest-room  from  December  until  May. 
The  boarder's  name,  this  year,  happened  to  be  Miss 
Sparker.  But  that  was  immaterial.  Any  name 
fitted  the  qualities  which  reproduced  themselves 
from  season  to  season,  with  that  monotonous  indif- 
ference to  personification  which  the  President 
thought  not  without  interest  as  bearing  upon  the 
doctrine  of  the  transmigration  of  the  faculty  or  the 
partial  soul.  It  was  the  only  interesting  thing  he 
had  ever  found  about  the  Northern  boarder. 

Breakfast  was  the  least  comfortable  of  the  com- 
fortless meals  at  the  Peytons',  because  the  President 
had  to  hurry  away  to  prayers.  Mrs.  Peyton  helped 
him  to  his  hominy  with  an  anxious  hand.  Nothing 
annoyed  the  President  like  being  late  at  college. 
She  said  it  made  him  nervous.  If  she  had  been  a 
rousing,  spunky  Northern  wife,  she  would  have  said 
it  made  him  unbearable.  He  never  scolded  brutally, 
for  he  was  quite  a  gentleman  ;  he  congealed,  —  that 
was  all.  A  Boston  sleet-storm  might  as  well  have 
spent  the  day  in  that  house.  Anthony  Peyton's 
sternness  when  displeasure  befell    him  Avas  some- 


40  THE  BELL  OF  SAINT  BASIL'S. 

thing  hardly  less  than  terrible.  His  students  used 
to  know  that.  Scattered  all  over  the  South  to-day 
are  middle-aged  men  who  tell  each  other  college 
stories  of  the  President,  with  a  shrug  in  which  a 
reminiscent  shudder  lingers  sensibly  still. 

His  wife  had  borne  the  full  force  of  his  nature  in 
this  respect  meekly ;  it  being  hers  to  do  so.  Be- 
sides herself,  there  had  been  one  other  who  had 
borne  it,  —  according  to  nature,  too. 

"  You  will  wear  your  overcoat,  Mr.  Peyton,  won't 
you  ? "  pleaded  Mrs.  Peyton  timidly,  as  the  Presi- 
dent pushed  back  his  chait,  and,  bowing  coldly  to 
the  two  ladies,  prepared  to  breast  the  bitter  morning. 

"  It  is  very  cold,"  sighed  the  Northern  boarder, 
with  an  air  of  originality.  "It  can't  be  worse  in 
New  York.  My  chicken  is  burned,  Mrs.  Peyton. 
I  '11  have  another  cup  of  coffee,  if  you  please.  Now, 
our  coffee  in  New  York  "  — 

"  And  an  umbrella,  too  ?  "  entreated  Mrs.  Peyton. 
She  followed  the  President  out  into  the  hall,  leaving 
the  boarder  and  Abraham  to  have  it  out.  She  stood, 
shivering,  before  her  husband,  a  little,  shrunken, 
white,  cowed  old  lady,  in  a  pale  purple  dress  and 
white  knit  shawl.  She  had  been  a  beauty  once,  and 
called  "  spirited."  She  felt  an  unwonted  sadness 
and  tenderness  this  morning.  Old  as  she  was,  she 
wanted  to  be  asked  what  ailed  her,  or  even  to  be 
kissed. 

"  You  will  take  cold,  Mrs.  Peyton,"  her  husband 
said  politely.     "  Return  and  entertain  your  guest." 

The  college  of  Saint  Basil's,  so  far  as  it  was  mate- 
rialized in  the  college  buildings,  stood  a  round  half 
mile  from  the  President's  house.     A  chapel  and  a 


THE  BELL  OF  SAINT  BASIL'S.  41 

couple  of  dormitories  comprised  the  architectural 
effect ;  these  were  old  aud  ruinous.  Saint  Basil's 
■was  none  of  your  high-schools,  starting  up  like 
Christmas  presents  every  year,  and  dubbing  them- 
selves colleges,  as  the  boot-black  or  the  barber  lays 
claim  to  the  title  of  Professor.  So  thought  the  Pres- 
ident, as  he  drew  his  learned  coat-collar  about  his 
aged  neck,  and  beat  with  the  energy  of  a  much 
younger  man  against  the  rising  wind.  He  was  apt 
to  cultivate  this  thought  on  the  way  to  prayers,  on  a 
chilly  morning.  He  took  some  comfort  in  it,  which 
was  fortunate,  for  there  was  nothing  else  about  Saint 
Basil's  that  a  man  could  take  comfort  in  now.  The 
sense  of  dignity  is  the  easiest  substitute  for  practical 
success,  and  the  President  of  St.  Basil's  made  the 
most  of  it. 

As  the  college  came  in  sight,  he  slackened  his  ner- 
vous pace  a  little.  He  had  always  done  so  in  the 
historic  days  of  the  institution,  when  it  had  four 
hundred  boys.  He  had  liked  to  enter  the  chapel 
with  the  grand  manner,  while  the  students  stood 
bareheaded,  in  rank,  to  let  him  precede  them.  He 
liked  to  do  so  now.  It  kept  up  the  sense  of  reality 
which  the  unoccupied  scholar  fed  within  himself 
voraciously  in  these  pantomimic  days  lest  it  starve, 
and  an  old  man's  courage  with  it. 

Saint  Basil's  was  not  a  cheerful  specimen  of  archi- 
tecture at  best.  It  was  particularly  grim  in  that  ad- 
vancing storm.  The  old  brick  dormitories  seemed  to 
draw  up  their  shoulders  to  keep  warm.  Here  and 
there  a  shutter  flapped  on  the  closed  and  cobwebbed 
windows.  The  steps  and  doorways  were  deserted ; 
the  campus  behind  lay  silent  in  the  lightly  scatter- 


42  THE  BELL  OF  SAIXT  BASIL'S. 

ing  snow.  From  the  rusty  college  pump  the  handle 
was  gone.  The  brick  chapel,  standing  between  the 
sombre  dormitories  like  a  clergyman  between  two 
Tinlighted  pulpit  lamps,  regarded  the  President  as  if 
it  were  an  intelligent  thing  who  understood  him. 
Possibly  it  did, — no  human  creature  as  well.  The 
chapel,  too,  was  still.  No  smoke  struggled  from  its 
chimneys,  which  leaned  a  little  for  lack  of  iron  props. 
Upon  the  windows  of  the  lecture-rooms  upstairs  the 
blinds  were  drawn  ;  many  a  slat  was  missing.  Pray 
was  the  janitor  late  ?  No  fires  built  ?  What  negli- 
gent underling  had  omitted  to  ring  the  bell  for  morn- 
ing prayers  ?  The  tongue  of  old  Saint  Basil's  mute  ? 
Why  did  not  her  iron  lips  open  to  call  her  boys  to 
chapel  ?  The  boys  ?  Where  wei^e  the  boys  ?  Upon 
the  broken  rail-fence,  singing  college  songs  ?  Be- 
hind the  dormitories,  jammed  into  a  Sophomore 
rush  ?  Waiting  the  old  man's  coming,  to  burst  into 
the  college  yell,  ''Saint  Basil  loved  a  jjfi-o-y'css  ?  " 
Standing  bareheaded,  rank  on  rank,  to  greet  their 
President,  like  the  Southern  gentlemen  that  they 
were  ?  See  their  young  heads  bowed  with  that 
graceful  ease  which  gave  Saint  Basil  her  celebrated 
"  manner,"  their  indolent  white  hands  j)assing  the 
quick  gesture  of  deference  from  the  bare  brow.  Do 
you  see  the  students  ?  Count  the  boys  of  Saint 
Basil's.     Call  the  roll.     Where  are  the  boys  ? 

Seek  them  in  their  ruined  cotton-fields,  in  their 
shattered  homes,  in  hard,  unaccustomed  manly  toil 
at  industries  strange  to  their  ancestry,  and  to  their 
training,  and  to  their  State.  Seek  them  in  sunken, 
nameless  graves  on  the  banks  of  the  Potomac,  at 
Antietam,  at  Gettysburg.    Pind  them  beneath  letters 


THE  BELL  OF  SAINT  BASIL'S.  43 

of  marble  and  crosses  of  flowers  on  Decoration  Day, 
at  Riclimoud.  Saint  Basil's  boys  have  gone  beyond 
the  nrging  voice  of  the  chapel  bell.  Saint  Basil 
cannot  call  her  roll  to-day.  The  ancient  college, 
patronized  by  an  English  king,  honored  by  the  Eng- 
lish Church,  once  graced  by  a  faculty  representing 
the  scholarship  of  Virginia,  long  the  Alma  Mater  of 
her  "  family,"  if  not  always  the  educator  of  her  emi- 
nent men,  Saint  Basil's,  the  pride  of  the  proud,  the 
fetich  of  the  ignorant,  now  become  the  anecdote  of 
collegiate  history,  had  met  the  fate  common  to  other 
interesting  facts  in  the  South.  She  existed  "  before 
the  war."  Saint  Basil  Avas,  in  short,  a  college  with- 
out a  boy.  •  She  had  kept  her  ancient  name,  her  dis- 
tinguished President,  her  college  buildings,  her  ex- 
tended real  estate,  her  chartered  rights,  and  to  some 
extent  her  invested  endowments.  What  she  had  not 
kept  was  her  students.  Virginians  spoke  of  the  col- 
lege as  they  do  of  the  corn-fields,  the  mansions,  the 
very  chickens  ;  nay,  the  moon  in  the  heavens  :  "  Oh, 
you  ought  to  have  seen  it  before  the  war !  " 

The  President  of  Saint  Basil's  passed  through  the 
ranks  of  unseen  students,  with  a  stately  step.  It 
might  have  been  touching  to  a  delicate  observer  to 
see  that  the  old  man  lifted  his  hat  as  he  did  this.  It 
seemed  like  the  response  of  a  gentlemanly  ghost  to 
the  deference  of  spirits.  Nevertheless,  he  shivered 
like  a  live  man  as  he  put  the  huge  key  in  the  lock  of 
the  chapel  door.  How  unmannerly  the  cold  was  that 
day  !  If  he  had  expected  such  weather,  he  would 
have  asked  the  trustees  to  provide  a  janitor  and  a 
fire  for  the  daily  flummery  through  which  the  fC^ed 
President  Avas   expected  to   pass,  that  the   college 


44  THE  BELL  OF  SAINT  BASIL'S. 

might  retain  her  charter  and  he  his  office.  Once  a 
day,  for  the  space  of  time  covered  by  the  college 
terms,  the  President  of  Saint  Basil's  officially  visited 
her  deserted  halls.  There,  he  summoned  the  invis- 
ible institution  to  order,  and  conducted,  for  the  in- 
struction of  its  unseen  youth,  the  service  for  morn- 
ing prayers. 

This  fact,  perhaps  the  only  instance  of  its  kind  in 
modern  collegiate  history,  is  not,  as  one  would  sup- 
pose, widely  known.  Chester  is  a  remote  village,  not 
yet  promoted  to  the  scale  of  a  Southern  health  re- 
sort, and  the  cogs  of  life's  wheels  turn  slowly  there. 
The  Northern  tourist  is  still  too  few,  and  usually  too 
feeble  or  too  feminine,  to  cultivate  an  interest  in  so 
classical  a  local  legend,  and  reporters  are  a  race  un- 
known. The  Chester  native  is  so  familiar  with  the 
sight  of  the  old  man  toiling  over  at  half-past  seven 
every  morning  to  the  silent  college,  with  a  key  in  his 
trembling  hands,  that  one  has  long  since  ceased  to 
pay  attention  to  the  circumstances ;  or  says  indiffer- 
ently, — 

"  There  's  the  President  going  over  to  prayers." 

Sometimes,  an  intellect  more  original  than  the 
average,  perhaps  the  telegrapher  or  a  railroad  man, 
ventures  the  added  and  daring  comment,  — 

"  They  ought  to  have  given  him  a  janitor.  They  've 
nothing  else  to  do  with  their  money." 

Now,  in  fact,  the  President  had  refused  the  janitor. 
Possibly  he  had  some  sort  of  pride  in  the  matter ; 
preferring  to  do  something  -which  struck  him  as  ob- 
vious toward  the  desert  of  that  salary  which  he  drew 
quarterly  from  the  board  of  trustees  representing  the 
existence  and  honor  of  the  institution.     Eeally,  the 


THE  BELL  OF  SAINT  BASIL'S.  45 

honor  of  the  institution  was  the  main  point  in  his 
scholastic  and  unmercenary  mind.  So  it  had  come 
about  that  the  President  rang  the  bell  of  Saint 
Basil's  every  morning,  with  his  own  aged  hands. 

Had  it  ever  been  so  cold  at  college  before  ?  The 
old  man  stamped  off  the  light  snow  in  the  dusty  ves- 
tibule, with  a  sigh.  He  had  been  an  ambitious  man 
in  his  day,  looking  forward  to  an  old  age  of  honored 
and  honorable  activity.  He  had  not  thought  to  be- 
come a  fussy,  idle  old  man,  dressing  by  tlie  ther- 
mometer. He  had  expected  to  be  busily  eminent 
for  his  scholarship,  and  in  correspondence  with  the 
scholars  of  other  institutions  and  sister  States, — 
eiitertaining  them  at  Commencements.  He  had 
thought  to  be  widely  known,  too,  and  feared  by  stu- 
dents for  his  remarkable  discipline.  He  had  never 
expected  the  boys  to  love  him.  But  they  had  always 
obeyed. 

He  looked  drearily  about  the  deserted  building  as 
he  lifted  his  hands  to  the  bell-rope.  Who  was  there 
to  obey  him  now  ?  Other  thoughts  appealed  to  his 
mind,  which  wandered  from  the  students,  as  it  often 
did,  —  too  often  did.  But  these,  as  he  never  shared 
them,  he  bore  best  when  he  was  alone. 

Eing !  Bang  !  Clang  !  The  college  bell  clashed 
upon  the  frosty  air,  with  which  it  harmonized  by  the 
hardest.  It  was  a  rusty  old  bell,  and  its  call  was  a 
little  cross  that  morning.  It  spoke  imperiously,  se- 
verely, like  a  bell  that  had  always  had  its  own  way, 
and  could  not  understand  why  nobody  answered  it. 

Eing !  Eing !  Such  a  thing !  Who  ever  heard  of 
such  a  thing  ?  Noise  !  Noise  !  Boys  !  JBot/s  !  Call ! 
Call  them  all!     Tell  — tell!      Saint  Basil's  bell! 


46  THE  BELL  OF  SAINT  BASIL'S. 

Saint  Basil  —  yes!  Loved  —  a  —  prioress!  Make 
a  noise  —  boys  !  Where  are  the  boys  ?  Who  dares  ? 
Not  come  to  prayers  ?     Covie  to  Prayers  ! 

The  last  authoritative  cry  clashed  over  the  iron 
lips,  and  ceased.  When  they  opened  again,  they 
opened  gently,  like  a  stern  soul  grown  sad.  Appeal- 
ingly  the  bell  began  to  toll :  — 

EoU  —  toll.  Tell  the  whole.  Call  them  all.  Call 
the  roll !  Toll  —  toll.  Fought  and  bled.  Count 
the  dead.  Boys  —  boys  !  Stop  life's  noise.  Come 
back,  boys  !  Rest  —  rest.  Peace  is  best.  Here  is 
rest.  Home  is  best.  Stay  —  stay  !  Come  to-day  ! 
Come  and  pray !  Stay  and  pray  !  Oh  —  stay  !  Oh  — 
pray ! 

The  voice  of  Saint  Basil's  reached  so  far  and  said 
so  much  that  morning  that  it  was  especially  noticed 
in  the  neighborhood.  A  negro,  driving  in  to  market 
with  sweet  potatoes  and  ducks,  spoke  of  it  to  a 
stranger  who  was  strolling  through  the  village.  He 
said  de  ole  bell  was  kind  o'  peart  dat  mornin'  j 
'peared  like  she  'd  toted  some  ob  her  boys  back.  The 
stranger  said  Yes  ;  that  he  had  been  listening  to  it, 
and  asked  what  it  was  rung  for  and  who  rang  it. 
For  he  had  understood,  he  said,  that  the  college  was 
closed  years  ago. 

The  President  rang  conscientiously  for  eight  min- 
utes, according  to  college  law.  When  the  time  was 
honorably  up,  the  trembling  rope  fell  from  the  trem- 
bling hand,  and  swung  off  into  the  air.  The  last  cry 
pealed  and  echoed  from  Saint  Basil's  throat,  and 
died  away  :  — 

Pray  —  pray  !  Oh,  stay,  stay  !  Oh,  pray  !  Come 
pray! 


THE  BELL  OF  SAINT  BASIL'S.  47 

The  President  entered  the  deserted  chapel  with 
uncovered  head.  The  chill  struck  him  heavily  that 
morning,  as  he  walked  up  the  long  aisle  between  the 
wooden  pews,  whittled  jagged  with  boys'  initials  ; 
he  knew  some  of  them  by  heart,  from  such  long  ac- 
quaintance. There  was  one  deep,  naughty  cut  in  the 
oaken  railing  before  the  very  chancel,  —  A.  P.,  the 
letters  ran ;  he  glanced  at  them  as  he  ascended  the 
steps,  with  bowed  head,  and  took  his  strange,  soli- 
tary position  behind  the  reading-desk.  He  looked 
the  learned  man  he  was  as  he  stood  there  in  the  dim 
and  empty  chapel ;  and  this  became  him,  for  Saint 
Basil  was  the  scholar  among  the  saints,  as  her  Pres- 
ident used  to  remind  the  boys.  Yet,  that  January 
morning,  he  seemed  a  very  desolate,  cold  old  man, 
and  one  would  have  thought  less  of  his  LL.  D.  than 
of  his  aching  fingers,  or  perhaps  his  aching  heart. 
The  empty  benches  stretched  before  him,  row  on 
row,  a  silent,  mocking  audience.  Their  invisible 
occupants  came  thronging  in.  The  boys  of  Saint 
Basil's  are  still  enough  now.  No  need  to  give 
them  long  marks  for  inattention.  President  Peyton. 
Will  you  rusticate  them,  sir,  for  sticking  pins  in 
each  other  at  recitation  ?  Suspend  them  for  hum- 
ming "  Saint  Basil  loved  a  pri-o-ress "  while  you 
pray  ?  Write  letters  of  complaint  to  the  silent  home 
of  the  most  rebellious  ghost  among  them  ?  Expel 
that  reckless  lad  —  that  one  yonder  in  the  front  pew 

—  he  who  had  the  yellow  curls  and  the  saucy  eyes  ; 
the  beautiful  fellow  ?   The  wildest  of  the  lot  always, 

—  up  to  every  trick  Saint  Basil's  ancient  halls  had 
ever  known  ;  bubbling  to  the  brim  with  frolic  ;  mad- 
dened by  severity,  melted  by  tenderness,  spoiled  by 


48  THE  BELL  OF  SAINT  BASIL'S. 

cither,  spoiled  by  both ;  shining  with  the  glory  of 
eternal  youth  ;  handsome,  defiant,  daring,  splendid  — 
Expel  that  sjjirit  ?  Mr.  President,  expel  that  spirit 
if  yon  can  ! 

'■'■  AhiiUjhty  and  most  merciful  Father,'^  began  the 
President  of  Saint  Basil's.  His  voice  resounded 
through  the  empty  chapel ;  it  was  strong  and  firm, 
and  fine.  He  read  the  prayer  uncommonly  well ; 
he  always  had.  He  slighted  nothing  of  its  solemn 
import  now.  If  any  one  of  Saint  Basil's  boys  had 
happened  in  to  the  chapel,  whether  in  the  spirit  or 
the  flesh,  he  would  have  been  proud  of  the  old 
President,  as  he  always  was. 

"  We  have  erred,  and  strayed  from  thy  icays  like 
lost  sheep,"  prayed  the  solitary  man.  "■  We  have  fol- 
lowed too  much  the  devices  and  desires  of  our  own 
hearts.  We  have  offended  against  thy  holy  laws.  .  .  . 
But  thou,  0  Lord,  have  mercy  iipon  us,  miserable 
offenders.  Spare  thou  those,  0  God,  who  confess 
their  faults.  Restore  thou  those  tcho  are  penitent ; 
According  to  thy  promises  declared  unto  manldnd  in 
Christ  Jesus  our  Lord." 

The  chapel  door  stirred  in  the  strengthening 
wind ;  or  perhaps  a  broken  blind  gave  way,  or  the 
step  of  one  of  the  ghostly  boys  hit  a  hymn-book 
fallen  from  the  seat  just  then  ?  But  the  President 
of  Saint  Basil's  was  used  to  spirit-boys  ;  he  so  often 
fancied  strange  sounds  in  the  chapel  that  he  had 
trained  himself  to  notice  none  of  them.  With  his 
white  head  bowed  and  reverently  lowered  eyes,  the 
old  man  solemnly  read  on  :  — 

"  And  grant,  0  most  m,erciful  Father,  for  his  sake  ; 
That  we  may  hereafter  live  a  godly,  righteous,  and, 
sober  life,  To  the  glory  of  thy  holy  Name.     Amen." 


THE  BELL  OF  SAINT  BASIL'S.  49 

"  Amen !  "  responded  a  living  voice  from  the 
empty  pews. 

The  figure  of  the  President,  bowed  over  the 
prayer-book,  stirred  visibly,  but  did  not  start.  He 
had  lived  too  many  times  in  imagination  through 
some  such  scene  as  this  to  suffer  himself  to  express 
surprise.  If  any  of  Saint  Basil's  boys  returned,  — 
and  why  should  not  Saint  Basil's  boys  return  ?  — 
they  should  find  the  institution  prepared  to  receive 
them  with  the  dignity  which  became  her.  Should 
her  ancient  halls  bow  and  smirk,  like  a  mushroom 
college  without  a  student  ?  If  her  boys  had  been 
scattered  for  a  week's  recess,  or  had  but  gone  to 
William  and  Mary's  for  a  ball-match,  the  President 
might  have  received  the  startling  incident  which 
now  befell  him  with  as  grand  a  carelessness.  Yet 
in  truth  it  shook  him  to  the  soul. 

When  he  raised  his  gray  head,  it  could  have  been 
seen  that  he  trembled,  and  that  his  countenance  had 
become  very  pale.  Had  any  person  been  observing 
him  —  But  no  one  was.  His  cool,  intellectual  gray 
eye  —  a  little  feverish  spark  burning  within  it  — 
traversed  the  length  of  the  chapel  before  it  rested 
upon  the  figure  of  a  man  in  one  of  the  back  pews, 
near  the  door.  The  man  was  kneeling  upon  one  of 
the  old  prayer-cushions  ;  his  head  was  bowed ;  his 
face  was  hidden  in  his  hands  ;  he  did  not  speak  nor 
stir. 

President  Peyton  closed  his  prayer-book,  and 
slowly  descended  the  chancel  steps.  His  mind  was 
in  a  tumult  strange  to  its  scholastic  peace.  He  was 
prepared  to  get  out  his  old  examination  papers  non- 
chalantly, as  if  it  were  a  matter  of  course.     Saint 


50  THE  BELL  OF  SAINT  BASIL'S. 

Basil's  should  not  appear  as  if  she  did  not  matricu- 
late new  students  any  day.  He  saw  himself  already 
going  home  to  tell  Mrs.  Peyton  and  the  Northern 
boarder  that  he  should  lecture  to  the  Freshman  class 
at  half-past  three.  He  lifted  his  white  head.  His 
stately  figure  straightened.  The  stoop  of  age  rose 
out  of  his  fine  shoulders,  and  his  eye  turned  strong 
and  young.  He  walked  with  great  official  dignity 
down  the  broad  aisle,  and  stopped  before  the  kneel- 
ing stranger. 

His  thin  lips  had  opened  to  address  the  young 
man,  but  they  closed  silently  and  cautiously. 

It  was  not  a  boy  who  knelt  in  Saint  Basil's  at 
morning  prayers  that  day.  It  was  a  middle-aged 
man.  He  seemed  to  be  rather  a  poor  man,  or  at  least 
he  was  shabbily  dressed.  Of  his  face,  persistently 
hidden  in  his  hands,  nothing  could  be  seen.  This 
gave  the  more  prominence  to  the  shape  of  his  head, 
which  was  good,  though  a  little  weak  in  the  frontal 
lobes,  and  to  his  abundant  curling  hair,  well  marked 
with  gray. 

Now,  when  the  President  had  drawn  his  stately 
steps  to  a  halt  before  the  kneeling  man,  he  perceived 
that  the  worshiper  was  sobbing. 

At  this  unexpected  sight  the  old  man  retreated 
immediately.  With  great  delicacy  he  forbore  even 
to  remain  in  the  chapel,  but,  passing  quickly  out, 
stood  in  the  vestibule,  uncertain  and  distressed.  He 
waited  there  for  some  moments,  but  the  visitor  did 
not  show  himself.  The  President,  perplexed,  pushed 
open  the  faded  baize  doors  softly  and  looked  in.  The 
kneeling  figure  in  the  deserted  chapel  remained  im- 
movable.     Only  its   hands   had  stirred,  and  these 


THE  BELL  OF  SAINT  BASIL'S.  51 

were  thrown  over  the  railing  of  the  pew  in  front, 
and  knotted  together  as  if  they  had  been  wrung. 

"  Sir,"  said  the  President,  himself  much  agitated, 
"  I  am  an  officer  of  Saint  Basil's.  Can  I  serve  you 
in  any  way  ?  " 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  the  distress  of  the 
stranger  made  itself  more  manifest.  An  audible 
sob  —  the  terrible  sob  of  a  man  no  longer  young  — 
shook  the  air. 

"  My  dear  sir !  "  cried  the  President,  quite  for- 
getting himself.  But  the  weeping  man  lifted  one  of 
his  clasped  hands,  and  waved  the  speaker  away  with 
a  gesture  so  piteous  and  so  imperious  that  it  was  im- 
possible to  disregard  it.  President  Peyton  bowed 
and  left  the  chapel,  hat  in  hand. 

He  went  out  into  the  storm,  and  wandered  about 
for  a  little  while,  greatly  moved  and  uncertain  what 
to  do.  The  stranger  did  not  come  out,  and  it  grew 
very  cold.  The  old  man  felt  chilled  to  the  heart. 
He  decided  that  he  would  go  home  and  think  the 
matter  over,  and  get  warm,  and  then  return. 

His  wife  met  him  when  he  came  in,  lifting  her  lit- 
tle, pinched,  sad  old  face  cautiously  to  see  how  his 
moral  thermometer  stood.  It  annoyed  him  that  she 
looked  afraid  of  him,  and  he  did  not  tell  her,  as  he 
had  meant  to  do,  what  had  happened  at  the  college. 
He  sat  down  by  the  study  fire  alone,  and  tried  to 
dry  his  feet ;  but  he  was  restless,  and  could  not  stay. 
In  a  few  minutes  he  started  out  again,  saying  no- 
thing to  anybody.  Miss  Sparker  called  from  the  top 
of  the  stairs  to  ask  what  the  thermometer  was,  and 
to  say  that  it  was  ten  degrees  lower  in  Kew  York, 
and  Mrs.  Peyton  cackled  anxiously  about  the  halls  ; 


52  TUE  BELL  OF  SAINT  BASIL'S. 

but  he  shut  the  front  door  with  a  succinctness  which 
in  a  less  distinguished  man  would  have  been  called  a 
slam. 

When  he  got  back  to  the  college,  he  was  wet 
through  and  dismally  cold.  The  chapel  was  empty. 
The  man  was  gone.  The  President  locked  the  chapel 
door,  with  a  sigh,  and  went  home  and  changed  his 
stockings  and  put  his  feet  in  mustard-water. 

He  told  his  wife,  in  the  course  of  the  day,  what 
had  happened,  for  he  could  not,  as  the  phrase  goes, 
"  get  over "  it.  The  incident  rose  like  a  mountain 
in  the  eventless  life  of  age,  and  solitude,  and  idle- 
ness. Never  since  the  war  had  Saint  Basil's  come  so 
near  to  a  student.  The  President  was  bitterly  dis- 
appointed. He  was  piqued  that  his  wife  shared  so 
little  of  his  official  regret.  Yet,  in  her  way,  she  was 
more  agitated  by  the  circumstance  than  he. 

"  Mercy !  Who  cares  a  wild  orange  for  the  col- 
lege / "  cried  Mrs.  Peyton,  with  unwonted  spirit. 
"  What  I  'm  thinking  of  is  the  poor  man.  What 
possessed  you,  Mr.  Peyton,  not  to  bring  him  home  to 
dinner  ?  Poor  fellow,  in  that  old  barn  of  a  dirty 
chapel,  all  by  himself,  —  crying,  —  and  just  look  at 
.it  snow  !     I  'm  surprised  at  you,  Mr.  Peyton  !  " 

President  Peyton  regarded  his  wife  with  the  help- 
lessness of  a  larger  intellect  confounded  by  the  in- 
adequacy of  a  lower.  He  remembered  that  kneeling 
figure,  that  cruel  sob,  that  piteous,  imperious  wave 
of  the  hand,  —  a  gesture  Avhich  no  man  could  have 
disobeyed.  He  felt  that  women  could  not  under- 
stand certain  phases  of  the  superior  delicacy  of  his 
own  sex.  But  this  consciousness  practically  did  no- 
thing toward  putting  him  right  with  Mrs.  Peyton  ; 


THE  BELL  OF  SAINT  BASIL'S.  53 

who  seemed  to  have  the  moral  advantage  over  him 
all  day.  And  the  worst  of  it  was  that  she  told  the 
boarder. 

President  Peyton  retired  to  his  study  and  locked 
the  door,  and  there  he  spent  the  afternoon. 

His  uncomfortable  thoughts  took  long  and  painful 
paths ;  these  crossed  a  waste  country,  deviously, 
reaching  nowhither.  His  memories  returned  upon 
the  thinker  like  lost  travelers.  To  what  end,  —  oh, 
to  what  bitter  end  ? 

The  old  man  rose,  and  paced  his  study  restlessly. 
The  high  bookcases  regarded  him  —  mute  friends, 
who  knew  the  value  of  sympathetic  silence.  Over 
in  a  corner,  between  the  English  Poets  and  the  Ger- 
man Metaphysics,  the  dictionaries  stood,  piled  one 
above  the  other,  —  Latin,  Greek,  and  Hebrew,  Span- 
ish, French,  —  upon  an  old  dictionary-holder,  home- 
made. The  President's  accustomed  eye  had  not 
rested  with  speculation  upon  the  dictionary-holder 
for  many  a  day.  Now,  walking  gloomily  to  and  fro, 
he  stopped  before  it,  standing  with  his  hands  behind 
him,  and  moodily  regarded  the  rude  thing.  With  a 
certain  ferocity  he  began  to  shove  the  lexicons  about ; 
tossed  them  over  each  other,  and  off  upon  the  thread- 
bare carpet.  The  dictionary-holder,  revealed  to  the 
full  light,  seemed  to  shrink,  as  flesh  would  before  a 
blow.     It  was  a  child's  wooden  high-chair. 

Mrs.  Peyton  knocked  at  the  study  door  while  the 
President  stood  among  his  fallen  dictionaries,  and, 
moved  by  some  unexpected  impulse,  he  let  her  in. 
She  had  been  crying.  She  apologized  for  troubling 
her  husband. 

"I-^I'm  so  sorry,  Mr.  Peyton,  to  interrupt  you, 
but  I  've  been  thinking  "  — 


54  THE  BELL  OF  SAINT  BASIL'S. 

At  this  moment  her  eyes  fell  upon  the  scattered 
lexicons,  and  then  upon  the  little  old  high-chair. 
Her  face  worked  pitifully,  but  she  did  not  cry  any 
more ;  she  seldom  did  cry  before  her  husband. 

She  went  up  to  the  high-chair,  and  began  to  rub  it 
tenderly  with  her  handkerchief. 

"  It  needed  dusting,"  was  all  she  said. 

The  two  old  people  looked  at  each  other.  An  em- 
barrassed silence  fell  between  them.  Each  heart 
beat  violently  to  one  thought,  upon  which  the  lips  of 
both  were  sealed. 

He  had  been  a  dear  little  fellow,  —  their  only  son, 
their  only  child.  Everybody  called  him  so.  He  was 
such  a  handsome  boy  !  His  beauty  ruined  him,  per- 
haps. It  is  easier  to  punish  an  ugly  child.  His 
mother  never  could  withstand  him  ;  he  rode  over  her 
inert  feminine  being  as  he  drove  his  pony  over  the 
Southern  sand.  This  was  her  natuie,  and  mother- 
hood does  not  change,  but  only  develops  nature. 
The  boy's  father  was  severe  enough  to  make  up  for 
it ;  he  reasoned  that  he  must  make  up  for  it,  thus 
seeking  justification  for  Jiis  nature,  which  turned  to 
harshness,  given  a  certain  amount  of  provocation,  as 
water  does  to  ice,  given  thirty-two  degrees  Fahren- 
heit. The  child  had  lived  the  life  of  a  thermometer, 
alternately  plunged  in  the  snow  and  held  down  the 
register.  It  would  not  be  exaggerating  the  case  to 
say  that  his  boyhood  was  one  panorama  of  civil  war. 
His  home  was  a  battle-field,  neither  more  nor  less. 
Scene  upon  scene  rolled  by  before  the  averted  eyes 
of  these  desolate  old  parents,  —  what  hot  words,  what 
threats,  what  tears,  what  fears,  what  rebellion,  mis- 
take, and  anguish !     See  defiance  turning  to  sullen- 


THE  BELL  OF  SAINT  BASIL'S.  55 

ness,  and  mischief  grown  disgrace  !  Poor  boy,  —  oh, 
poor  boy  !  .  .  . 

If  the  President  could  have  forgotten  one  bitter 
word,  one  icy  rejoinder,  any  of  those  terrible  con- 
flicts when  authority  and  dependence  clashed,  when 
the  personal  sense  of  power  wrought  parental  love 
into  a  vulgar  weapon ;  one  of  the  hours  when  he 
had  struck  home  or  struck  down;  one  of  the  mo- 
ments when  the  child  had  writhed,  or  threatened, 
or  fulfilled  a  threat  !  But  he  had  never  forgotten. 
If  she  could  forget  one  of  the  pitiful  scenes  when 
she  hung  like  a  shield  between  the  sword  of  his 
father's  anger  and  the  bosom  of  the  boy's  blame  ;  the 
nights  when  she  helped  him  upstairs,  too  sore  a 
sight  for  any  eye  but  his  mother's  to  fall  on  and  for- 
give ;  the  times  when  she  dismissed  a  servant,  or 
wore  a  shabby  dress,  or  suifered  for  suitable  food, 
that  she  might  save  money  to  pay  his  debts  ;  the 
hours  when  he  laid  his  beautiful  head  upon  her  knee 
and  cried  like  a  very  little  fellow,  and  said  he  would 
never,  never  do  so  any  more,  and  asked  her  to  for- 
give him,  and  she  stroked  his  curls,  and  wound 
them  round  her  finger,  and  kissed  them,  and  said, 
"  You  '11  be  a  good  boy  now,  Tony,  won't  you  ?  " 

Forgive  him  ?  She  would  have  poured  her  soul 
and  body  into  a  crucible,  and  boiled  them  down  to 
one  red  draught  for  the  boy  to  drink,  if  so  she  might 
have  given  him  a  pleasure  that  she  should  have  de- 
nied him,  or  purity  that  she  had  not  educated  in  him. 
Forget  ?  She  sometimes  wished  she  could,  or  won- 
dered if  there  are  worlds  where  mothers  can. 

When  the  terrible  time  came,  when  the  boy  com- 
mitted the  unpardonable  sin,  whatever  it  was,  —  she 


56  THE  BELL  OF  SAINT  BASIL'S. 

had  almost  forgotten  what,  there  seemed  so  many, 
and.  that  one  looked  to  her  so  easy  to  forgive,  — 
when  his  father  expelled  him,  just  as  if  he  had  been 
anybody  else's  son,  —  more  quickly,  she  thought ; 
with  a  hotter  purpose,  with  less  mercy,  with  a  colder 
rage,  —  she  had  clur.g  to  her  husband,  and  twined 
her  arms  about  his  neck,  wishing  he  loved  to  have 
them  there,  and  unclasped  them,  for  she  felt  he 
did  not,  and  dragged  herself  down  from  his  heart 
to  his  knees,  nay,  to  his  feet,  where  she  lay  sobbing 
and  prostrate,  a  piteous  maternal  figure,  and  pleaded 
for  the  boy. 

"  Mrs.  Peyton,"  the  President  had  said,  "  we  will 
not  discuss  the  subject  any  further." 

And  so  it  had  happened.  She  came  home  from 
market,  one  day,  with  Juno  before  her  carrying  the 
basket  (there  was  venison  in  the  basket,  that  day 
and  celery,  and  Juno  was  cross  and  disrespectful), 
and  she  was  very  tired,  and  went  into  the  study  to 
lie  down  on  the  sofa,  for  the  President  was  at  lec- 
ture ;  and  there,  pinned  upon  the  green  sofa-cushion, 
—  she  had  covered  it  since  with  black  cut  from  one 
of  the  boy's  old  coats,  —  there  she  had  found  his 
little  note  :  — 

Dear  Mother  [it  ran],  Father  has  expelled  me, 
and  I  hate  him.  Tell  him,  I  've  gone  to  the  devil,  and 
say  your  prayers  for  me  when  you  can  conveniently. 
/'m  sorry  to  make  you  feel  badly,  but  I  won't  stand 
it.  Your  loving  son, 

Anthony  Peyton. 

"  I  'm  sorry  to  disturb  you,"  repeated  Mrs.  Peyton, 


THE  BELL  OF  SAINT  BASIL'S.  57 

that  January  afternoon,  when  she  had  dusted  the 
high-chair.     "  Shall  I  put  back  the  lexicons  ?  " 

"  Allow  me,"  said  her  husband  courteously  ;  "  they 
are  heavy  for  a  lady." 

When  the  little  chair  was  covered  out  of  sight, 
both  of  the  old  people  drew  long  breaths  ;  they  felt 
better.  They  had  lived  alone  together,  noAv,  for 
twenty  years.  It  sometimes  did  seem  a  pity  that 
they  could  not  give  each  other  more  comfort. 

"I  wanted  to  say,"  began  the  wife  timidly,  "I 
came  in  to  tell  you  —  that  I  —  that  I  can't  forget 
him,  for  the  life  of  me  !  " 

"  Forget  whom,  Mrs.  Peyton  ? "  demanded  the 
President,  with  a  hot  flush  upon  his  withered  cheek. 

"  Why,  that  man  in  the  college  ! " 

"  Oh  !  Yes.  Ah.  Indeed.  Yes.  To  tell  you  the 
truth,  my  dear,  I—  I  can't  myself.  It  was  a  very 
painful  circumstance." 

He  took  a  chair  beside  his  wife,  as  he  said  this  ; 
an  action  unusual  with  him.  She  drew  her  own  a 
little  nearer  to  him,  involuntarily,  perhaps.  They 
looked  at  each  other  drearily.  Her  blue  lips  trem- 
bled. Suddenly  her  composure  forsook  her,  and  her 
uncontrolled  voice  broke  into  a  heart-moving  wail :  — 

«  Oh,  Mr.  Peyton,  Mr.  Peyton !  Don't  you  scold 
me,  for  I  can't  help  it,  I  can't,  to  save  my  soul !  If 
you  'd  only  (/ot  the  poor  fellow  —  or  just  found  out 
what  he  was  crying  for  — or  asked  him  to  come  over 
and  get  warm  —  or,  or  —  or  something  !  Por  the 
Lord  knows,  Mr.  Peyton,  it 's  what  we  'd  go  on  our 
knees  to  beg  anybody  else  to  do  for  —  to  do  by  "  -— 

«  Maria  !  "  cried  President  Peyton  in  a  terrible 
voice.     "  Por  God's  sake,  hush  !  " 


58  THE  BELL  OF  SAINT  BASIL'S. 

"  I  won't  hush,"  protested  the  ohl  hidy,  with  in- 
credible courage.  "  I  won't  be  still,  Anthony  !  You 
are  my  husband,  and  you  were  his  father,  and  you 
shall  listen  to  me  !  My  trouble  is  your  trouble  and 
your  sorrow  is  my  sorrow,  and  your  ways  ought  to  be 
my  ways,  or  my  ways  ought  to  be  yours,  and  they  're 
not,  and  it  is  n't  right !  I  'm  worn  out  with  it  —  liv- 
ing so  —  never  a  word  —  not  to  sjieak  his  name,  any 
more  than  if  we'd  never  had  a  child  —  and  he  per- 
haps—  Oh,  I  know  he  's  dead!  I  know,  I  know 
he  's  dead !  I  have  n't  gone  crazy  —  I  've  got  it  all 
clear  in  my  head.  I  've  gone  over  it  and  over  it 
nights.  I  would  n't  have  you  think  I  think  he  's 
living,  Mr.  Peyton.  But  if  he  had  nH  died  —  wan- 
dering about ;  in  cold  weather  ;  crawling  into  damp 
churches  ;  crying  before  people  —  but  Tony  never 
cried  before  anybody  but  me.  .  .  .  Oh,  Mr.  Peyton, 
Mr.  Peyton  !  It  is  n't  for  you  and  me  ever  to  let 
a  stranger  go  by  without  our  gates.  Supposing  he 
were  cold,  or  even  hungry,  Anthony  —  and  homesick, 
and  sorry,  and  felt  sick  —  and  somebody  took  him  in. 
Oh,  blessings  on  those  people,  wherever  in  this  awful 
world  they  are,  who  took  our  darling  in  !  " 

''  Maria  !  Maria !  "  repeated  the  President  help- 
lessly. He  could  not  get  beyond  this  unaccustomed 
word ;  he  dwelt  upon  it  in  a  kind  of  delirium.  He 
was  extremely  agitated,  and  looked  about  him  piti- 
fully, like  a  man  whose  mind  was  leaving  him.  "  I 
will  go  and  find  him,"  he  said  appealingly.  "  Shall 
I  go  and  find  the  man,  Maria  ?  Will  that  please 
you  ?  " 

"  You  '11  take  cold,"  sobbed  the  old  lady,  whose 
mind  had  flopped  to  the  practical  and  inexorable  sur- 


THE  BELL  OF  SAINT  BASIL'S.  59 

face  of  things  the  more  heavily  for  its  unusual  imagi- 
native flight.  "  You  knoAV  you  did  n't  put  on  your 
thick  ones  this  morning." 

But  the  President  had  already  left  her.  Before 
she  could  gather  herself  to  withstand  him  he  was 
well  out  into  the  storm  and  far  down  the  solitary 
street ;  beating  about  Heaven  knew  whither,  to  find 
the  Lord  knew  what. 

Now  the  Northern  boarder  was  an  idle  woman, 
and  diverted  by  the  trifles  which  lease  the  tenements 
of  empty  minds.  She  sat  at  her  window  a  great 
deal  of  the  time,  many  hours  of  the  vacant  day. 
Whatever  went  on  in  the  streets  of  Chester  —  no- 
thing ever  had  gone  on  in  Chester,  to  be  sure  —  Miss 
Sparker  was  foredoomed  to  see.  Her  large,  calm, 
vague  face,  with  its  two  little  pats  of  gray  curls  on 
either  side,  gazed  from  the  windows  of  the  Presiden- 
tial guest-room  with  patient  and  mysterious  persist- 
ence. 

Miss  Sparker  sat  at  her  window  that  afternoon. 
She  had  sat  there  since  half-past  two  o'clock.  An 
unfinished  afghan  lay  across  her  knee.  An  uncut 
magazine  lay  upon  the  afghan.  It  was  now  well  on 
toward  five,  very  cold  without  and  growing  dark. 
The  snow  had  blown  on,  but  the  wind  held.  The 
streets  of  Chester  were  dim  and  dreary.  Miss 
Sparker  did  not  light  her  lamp,  that  she  might  the 
better  watch  the  few  disconsolate  figures  that  strug- 
gled up  and  doAvn  the  road.  It  was  time  to  put 
fresh  light-wood  on  the  discouraged  fire,  but  Miss 
Sparker  had  become  so  much  occupied  that  she  for- 
got the  fire,  and  sat  on  rigidly,  with  her  face  pressed 
to  the  window-pane. 


60  THE  BELL  OF  SAINT  BASIL'S. 

*'  There  !  "  cried  Miss  Sparker  suddenly.  "  He 's 
coining  again  !  "  She  spoke  so  loud  that  Mrs.  Pey- 
ton, dr3'ing  her  eyes  in  the  study,  heard  the  North- 
ern boarder's  voice,  and  went  into  the  hall  to  see 
what  she  wanted. 

"  Mrs.  Peyton ! "  called  Miss  Sparker,  in  evident 
excitement.  "  Are  you  there  ?  Come  up  here  — 
quick ! " 

"  Just  look  at  that  man ! "  she  added  eagerly, 
when  the  old  lady  panted  up  to  ask  if  Abraham  or 
Juno  had  neglected  anything.  "  No  —  that  man  — ■ 
there  !  That  man  who  's  been  hanging  about  this 
house  half  the  afternoon." 

"  I  don't  see  any  man  at  all,"  protested  Mrs.  Pey- 
ton, beginning  to  tremble.  "  I  must  get  my  specta- 
cles." 

"Why,  yes,  you  do/"  insisted  the  boarder,  with 
explosive  Northern  energy.  ' "  Who  needs  specta- 
cles to  see  a  man  ?  Over  there  —  behind  the  live- 
oak  —  by  the  northeast  corner  of  the  fence  !  There  ! 
...  I  told  you  so !  That  man  has  been  haunting 
this  place  like  a  burglar  for  two  hours.  It  has  been 
very  interesting.  First  he  came  up,  and  I  thought 
he  was  going  to  ring  the  gate-bell.  Then  he 
changed  his  mind,  and  walked  away.  Then  he  came 
back  on  the  other  side  of  the  street,  and  kind  of 
sidled  over  and  hung  his  head.  Then  he  cleared 
out  again.  By  and  by  he  came  vip,  and  held  up  his 
head,  and  sort  of  made  for  the  house,  as  if  he  'd  do 
it  if  he  died  for  it.  And  then  the  President  came 
out.  So  the  fellow  gave  him  a  look  and  put  for  it, 
and  hid  behind  the  live-oak,  and  scooted  down 
Chester  Street,  and  I  thought  that  was  the  end  of 


THE  BELL  OF  SAINT  BASIL'S.  61 

him.  But  I  thought  I  'd  look  a  little  longer,  it  was 
so  interesting  ;  and  now  there,  Mrs.  Peyton,  as  true 
as  you  live  he 's  going  away  !  He  's  given  it  up,  and 
he 's  going  away  for  good.  He  must  be  very  wet. 
He  seems  cold,  too.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Peyton  !  Mrs.  Pey- 
ton ! " 

But  Mrs.  Peyton  had  gone.  With  one  little  aged 
quaver  of  a  cry,  she  had  leaped  down  the  stairs  like 
a  very  young  woman,  dashed  wide  open  the  door, 
swung  the  hall  light  full  in  front  of  it,  and,  pausing 
only  to  pull  her  white  knit  shawl  over  her  gray 
head,  run  straight  out  into  the  street. 

There  she  stood  uncertain,  shaking  like  a  person 
in  a  mortal  chill.  Out  in  the  growing  dark  she 
could  see  nothing.  The  figure  had  vanished.  She 
made  her  way  along  the  fence  and  round  behind  the 
live-oak,  where  she  spread  out  her  searching  hands. 
No  one  was  there. 

''Mrs.  Peyton,  Mrs.  Peyton,  are  you  crazy?" 
called  the  Northern  boarder.  Her  window  went  up 
with  a  bang.  "  Come  in  this  minute,  or  you  '11  get 
your  death  !  The  fellow  is  n't  worth  it  —  at  your 
age  ! " 

"  Miss  Sparker ! "  cried  Mrs.  Peyton,  with  unex- 
ampled authoritativeness,  and  she  cried  at  the  top 
of  her  feeble  voice.  "  I  am  the  mistress  of  my  own 
house,  and  you  are  my  guest.  I  command  you  —  I 
command  you,  for  God's  sake,  to  keep  still.  ...  If 
there  is  anybody  here,  Miss  Sparker,  anybody,  amj- 
body  who  wants  the  shelter  of  my  roof  or  the  com- 
fort of  my  home,  he  is  welcome  to  it  with  all  my 
heart  and  soul,  and  I've  come  out  to  say  so.  Is 
there  anybody  here  ? "  she  added,  in  a  soft  and 
brooding  tone. 


62  THE  BELL  OF  SAINT  BASWS. 

No  answer  reached  her  ;  and  then,  without  an- 
other moment's  hesitation,  she  stretched  out  both 
her  arms  as  far  as  she  could  into  the  dusk,  and 
quietly  said :  — 

"  Tony  ?     Are  you  there  ?  " 

"  Tony  !     Tony,  dear  !  " 

"  Is  it  you,  Tony  ?  Don't  be  afraid,  Tony.  Your 
father  sha'n't  hnd  fault  with  you  ...  if  you  '11  only 
come  home.  It 's  warm  at  home.  It 's  very  plea- 
sant." 

"  If  it  is  you,  Tony,"  she  said,  more  gently  still, 
"  I  should  n't  think  you  'd  keep  your  mother  wait- 
ing in  the  wet,  like  this.  You  were  always  careful 
of  your  mother  —  and  good  to  her,  Tony.  I  'm 
afraid  it  is  n't  he.  I  thought  perhaps  it  was. 
Tony  ?  Mother's  boy !  Mother's  sonny  boy ! 
Tony !  " 

Now,  as  she  held  herself  thus,  a  piteous  pleading 
figure  in  the  dark,  stretching  out  her  empty  arms, 
they  closed  suddenly,  shaken  and  awed ;  for  a  mis- 
erable man,  ragged,  weather-stained,  and  wet,  had 
walked  straight  into  them  and  put  his  face  upon  her 
neck. 

She  led  him  into  the  house  without  one  word. 
She  took  his  hand,  and  he  let  her,  as  if  he  had  been 
a  very  little  boy.  She  led  him  into  the  bright  hall, 
Avhere  the  lamp  was  set,  and  closed  the  door,  and 
took  off  his  shabby  overcoat  and  rusty  hat  and  hung 
them  on  the  hat-tree,  as  if  they  had  hung  there  every 
night  for  all  these  twenty  years. 

"■  I  '11  have  Juno  dry  these  wet  things,  dear,"  she 
said  quietly.     She  took   him    into  the  study,  quite 


THE  BELL  OF  SAINT  BASIUS.  63 

naturally,  and  got  him  down  before  the  fire  ;  threw 
on  more  light-wood,  knelt  upon  the  hearth,  and 
lifted  his  ragged,  soaking  feet  upon  the  fender. 

"  We  '11  get  off  the  shoes  and  stockings  right 
away,  Tony,"  she  said.  "  There,  dear !  There  ! 
Nice  to  be  home  again,  is  n't  it  ?  " 

They  were  sitting  j;ist  so,  when  the  old  man  came 
back,  drenched  and  disconsolate.  He  pushed  open 
the  study  door,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand. 

"Maria,"  he  began,  "1  couldn't  find  the  man. 
I  'm  sorry  to  disappoint  you.  I  've  been  all  over  the 
village  after  him.     But "  — 

Then  and  there  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  shabby,  mid- 
dle-aged figure  shrinking  in  his  study-chair.  .  .  . 

His  wife  held  those  soiled  bare  feet  against  her 
purple  dress,  and  washed  them  as  she  knelt,  and 
dried  them.  She  kissed  them,  too,  and  laid  her 
aged  face  upon  them,  and  patted  them  with  her  thin 
hands. 

''  Your  father  is  here,  Tony,"  she  said.  "  He  is 
very  glad  to  see  you.  He  is  standing  right  behind 
your  chair.  He  wants  to  tell  you  how  glad  he  is. 
Let  him  kiss  you,  Tony.     It  will  comfort  him." 

The  two  men  obeyed  her  like  two  disembodied 
spirits  who  did  not  know  what  else  to  do  but  to  obey 
the  supreme  moral  poAver  of  the  situation. 

No  one  spoke  till  afterward,  and  then  the  mother 
said,  quite  easily,  that  she  would  go  and  see  to 
Tony's  supper. 

She  ordered  them  after  this  like  children,  and 
neither  man  gainsaid  her. 

"  Anthony,"  she  said  authoritatively,  as  soon  as 
she  could  get  the  President  into  the  hall  alone,  "  do 


64  THE  BELL  OF  SAINT  BASIL'S. 

as  I  bid  you,  for  once  in  all  our  lives.  Don't  you 
ever  —  don't  you  ever  ask  him  a  single  question! 
It  does  n't  make  any  difference  what  he 's  done.  It 
is  n't  any  matter  where  he  's  been.  If  he  wants  to 
tell,  let  him.  If  he  does  n't,  we  '11  never  bother  him, 
—  we  '11  never  ask  him  —  never !  " 

And  they  never  did.  They  took  him  home  and 
cherished  him,  and  said  no  word,  and  let  him  keep 
his  silence,  as  he  chose.     It  was  his  own. 

He  slept  that  night  in  his  own  room  and  in  his 
old  bed.  In  the  night  he  was  heard  pacing  up  and 
down,  and  his  mother  went  to  him,  and  remained 
with  him  for  a  time  and  quieted  him. 

He  came  to  breakfast  with  them,  next  morning, 
by  his  own  desire  ;  a  timid,  shaken  man,  abashed 
and  strange.  That  was  the  Northern  boarder's 
hour.  Then,  indeed,  she  was  the  comfort  of  the 
family ;  for  she  talked  about  the  weather  in  Xew 
York  till  the  subject  glowed  with  vivacity,  and  took 
upon  itself  a  supreme  value  never  known  in  conver- 
sational history  before.  This  made  Miss  Sparker 
very  happy. 

When  breakfast  was  over  and  the  President  went 
to  prayers,  he  was  surprised,  and  perhaps  embar- 
rassed, to  see  that  a  silent  figure  followed  him.  It 
looked  shabby,  and  bowed,  and  sad. 

"I  thought  I  might  help  you  ring  the  bell, 
father,"  was  all  he  said.  It  was  the  first  time  he 
had  directly  addressed  his  father.  The  old  man  an- 
swered, ''  Thank  you,  my  son,"  and  they  went  to  col- 
lege side  by  side.  The  storm  was  over,  and  the  day 
had  melted,  fair  and  warm.  The  light  would  have 
blinded  them  if  the  snow  had  not  sunk  away. 


THE  BELL  OF  SAINT  BASIL'S.  65 

The  younger  man  pulled  at  the  bell-rope  sturdily, 
and  Saint  Basil's  voice  rang  far  and  wide  :  — 

Stay  —  pray  !  Home  —  to-day.  To  God  —  we 
pray.     Home  —  to  stay  ! 

Then  they  went  into  the  chapel  together,  and  An- 
thony Peyton  took  his  old  seat,  and  knelt  upon  the 
dusty  prayer-cushion,  and  bowed  his  head  upon  his 
hands,  while  the  President  of  Saint  Basil's  read  :  — 

"  And  grant,  0  most  merciful  Father,  for  his  sake  ; 
That  we  may  hereafter  live  a  godly,  righteous,  and 
sober  life,  To  the  glory  of  thy  holy  Name.     Amen.'" 


SHUT  IN. 

It  was  the  dreariest  hour  of  the  day  in  the  Hope 
HospitaL  It  Avas  the  time  when  even  in  the  South 
End  of  the  city,  where  the  afternoons  are  generous 
and  the  streets  wide,  the  sun  steps  slowly  off  the 
floor  of  the  ward  and  leans  over  the  window-sills 
and  draws  his  shining  skirts  around  him,  and  gets 
away.  It  was  the  time  before  gas  and  after  day- 
light ;  it  was  the  time  when  the  afternoon  fever  sets 
in ;  it  was  the  time  when  the  doctor  does  not  come 
upon  his  next  visit ;  it  was  the  time  when  it  ought 
to  be  supper-time  and  is  n't ;  when  one  ought  to  feel 
better  and  does  n't ;  when  one  wants  to  be  at  home 
and  can't ;  when  the  hand-organ  on  Harmony  Street 
plays  "  The  Old  Folks  at  Home,"  or  « Toll  the 
Bell,"  or  "  Bury  me  Deep,"  or  other  enlivening  airs 
suited  to  enhance  the  cheerfulness  of  patients.  It 
was  the  time  when  the  Irishwoman  in  the  next  bed 
maintains  that  she  cannot  live  till  morning,  or  will 
die  in  the  attempt  to  prove  it ;  when  the  riegress  in 
the  surgical  ward,  who  has  the  serious  operation  and 
the  funny  temperament,  sings  :  — 

"  Sambo  was  my  dai-sy !  " 

as  loud  as  she  dares  and  louder  than  she  is  allowed; 
when  the  West  End  lady  patroness  in  the  private 
room,  who  always  comes  to  her  own  hospital  when 
she  is  ill,  sends  her  maid  on  twenty  errands  in  as 


SHUT  IN.  67 

many  minutes  ;  when  the  pious  patient  calls  for  her 
Bible  and  reads  aloud  from  Lamentations  ;  when  the 
patient  with  the  cough  is  noisy,  when  the  patient 
with  the  groan  is  groany,  when  the  patient  who 
weeps  is  teary,  when  the  nurse  looks  out  of  the  win- 
dow, and  wishes  she  were  free  to  take  a  walk  like 
other  folks  :  the  hour  when  it  seems  impossible  to 
get  well  and  objectionable  to  die  and  worse  to  live  ; 
when  the  burden  of  all  life  is  at  its  heaviest  and  the 
lot  of  the  sick  is  at  its  hardest  —  it  was  half-past 
four  o'clock.  Besides,  it  was  late  in  October  and  it 
was  Boston. 

It  had  been  threatening  rain  all  day  ;  and  between 
half-past  four  and  five  the  fall  began.  This  was  the 
time  when  the  hospital  ambulance  slowly  turned  the 
corner  of  Washington  Street,  and  rolled  consider- 
ately up  the  hospital  avenue  with  the  new  patient. 
Not  that  it  was  an  event  to  receive  a  new  patient  at 
the  Hope  Hospital,  which  was  a  new  enterprise,  mod- 
ern to  the  last  detail,  both  of  faith  and  practice,  and 
representing  the  most  progressive  form  of  medical 
science ;  paying  some  special  attention  to  the  com- 
fort and  the  diversion  of  patients  according  to 
methods  of  its  own.  Hope  Hospital  was  a  popular 
place  ;  had  not  beds  enough  to  receive  the  half  of  its 
applicants,  and  declined  them  by  the  hundreds  every 
year.  The  institution  is  well  known  as  one  of  the 
magnificent  charities  of  one  of  the  most  generous 
towns  in  the  world ;  its  patrons,  though  chiefly 
heavy  tax-payers  to  the  medical  treatment  of  the 
State  and  the  city,  are  compelled  to  support  their 
personal  medical  faith  out  of  their  own  pockets ; 
hence  the  limitations  and  the  enthusiasms  of  Hope 


68  SHUT  IN. 

Hospital.    It  has   all  the   ardors   of    self-sacrifice, 
pugnacity,  and  reform. 

It  is  crowded,  as  I  said.  But  a  patient  from 
Michigan  does  not  come  every  day.  It  was  under- 
stood that  the  celebrity  of  her  "case"  —  which 
means  the  extremity  and  obduracy  of  her  sufferings 
—  had  admitted  the  patient  from  Michigan.  The 
celebrated  Dr.  Yon  Moltke,  of  our  own  staff,  had  or- 
dered preparations  for  the  girl,  who  had  appealed  to 
his  skill  by  a  letter  which  she  never  would  have 
dared  to  write  had  she  known  the  man  she  wrote  to  ; 
for  this  reason,  perhaps,  it  touched  him.  The  great 
man,  brusque,  savage  when  he  felt  like  it,  worn  to 
the  shreds  of  his  nerve  and  his  temper,  doing  the 
work  of  ten  better-natured  men,  used  to  turning  off 
patients  as  the  editor  of  a  popular  magazine  turns 
away  spring  verse,  peremptorily  required  every  at- 
tention paid  to  this  obscure  young  woman. 

"  She  suffers  the  torments  of  Hell,"  he  said ;  "  and 
she  writes  the  letter  of  an  angel  in  Heaven." 

"The  patient  from  Michigan,  Dr.  Hall,"  an- 
nounced the  janitor.     "  Miss  Brand,  sir." 

The  house  physician  bustled  and  blushed  a  little 
as  he  went  out  to  receive  Miss  Brand.  He  was  a 
delicate,  boyish  fellow,  pale  and  fair,  possessed  of 
the  excessive  shyness  not  uncommon  with  young 
men,  beginners  in  his  profession.  He  bustled  be- 
cause he  felt  his  unimportance ;  he  blushed  because 
he  tried  to  feel  at  ease  ;  he  had  not  been  at  his  post 
six  months,  and  was  not  hardened  yet  to  the  sight  of 
suffering  women. 

The  patient  from  Michigan,  when  the  door  of  the 
ambulance  was  opened,  turned  her  face  with  a  look 


SHUT  IN.  69 

of  keen  expectance.  She  saw  a  patch  of  rainy  sky 
from  which  the  drops  drizzled  petulantly  ;  the  brick 
fa9ade  of  the  hospital  towered  behind ;  the  brown 
grass-plots  and  dying  red  and  yellow  chrysanthe- 
mums in  the  well  kept  flower-beds  spattered  against 
each  other.  A  marble  woman,  supposed  to  repre- 
sent the  art  of  healing  as  adapted  to  the  limitations 
of  a  fountain,  poured  Cochituate  and  rain  from  a  vase 
upon  the  forehead  of  a  marble  child  with  the  gen- 
eral appearance  of  having  his  face  washed  and  ob- 
jecting to  it.  The  foreground  of  this  scenery  was 
occupied  by  a  dripping  umbrella ;  beneath  it,  a  drip- 
ping young  man.  He  stood  in  the  storm  with  his 
hat  off,  looking  gently  into  the  ambulance. 

"  You  don't  look  as  I  expected,"  observed  the  pa- 
tient immediately.  "I  supposed  you  were  black 
and  big." 

"  Madam  ?  "  expostulated  the  young  man,  blushing 
madly. 

"  Are  n't  you  Dr.  Von  Moltke  ?  "  inquired  Miss 
Brand  comfortably. 

"  Great  heavens,  no ! "  cried  the  house  physician. 
"  Why,  I  don't  look  any  more  like  him  than  a  —  a 
turkey  does  like  —  like  a  man-of-war." 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon  !  You  see  I  'm  so  igno- 
rant. I  never  was  at  a  hospital.  It  did  n't  occur  to 
me  there  was  more  than  one  doctor.     How  funny ! " 

Miss  Brand  laughed  merrily;  the  house  physi- 
cian laughed  too ;  he  did  not  remember  ever  having 
seen  a  new  patient  laugh  before ;  they  usually  took 
it  out  in  sadder  ways,  poor  things,  when  the  ex- 
citement of  arrival  succeeded  the  miseries  of  the 
journey. 


70  SHUT  IN. 

"  May  I  get  out  ?  "  asked  the  patient  from  Michi- 
gan, with  twinkling  eyes.  As  Dr.  Wentworth  Hall 
looked  into  the  ambulance  from  the  Boston  storm 
Miss  Brand  seemed  to  him  to  be  all  eyes.  She  had 
a  dark,  sweet  face ;  it  was  a  small  face  of  the  type 
which  gives  an  impression  of  essential  refinement ; 
she  had  brown  hair,  which  was  brushed  back  from  a 
high  forehead  beneath  an  invalid  cap,  over  which  she 
wore  a  crocheted  woolen  hood  or  rigolette  of  white ; 
her  stuff  dress  was  brown  and  old  and  covered  by  an 
older  brown  cloak  and  shawl  of  brown  and  white 
check ;  her  brown  gloves  were  much  mended  and 
white  at  the  fingers'  ends.  Evidently  the  patient 
from  Michigan  was  not  a  rich  person.  Her  cheeks 
were  sunken,  and  the  chiseling  of  intense  suffering 
had  been  deeply  carved  about  her  mouth  and  fore- 
head, between  and  above  the  eyes.  Her  eyes  were 
uncommonly  large  and  brilliant ;  of  a  color  not  easy 
to  classify,  at  least  between  an  umbrella  and  an  am- 
bulance ;  they  looked  at  the  young  physician  straight 
and  strong ;  it  was  as  if  the  soul  of  health  shone  out 
of  the  body  of  disease. 

"  I  can't  (/et  out,  you  know,"  she  added,  laughing 
lightly.     "  I  don't  walk,  I  'm  ashamed  to  say." 

"  Your  pardon.  Miss  Brand  ! "  pleaded  the  young 
doctor  with  a  fresh,  fierce  blush.  "  You  shall  have 
every  attention  at  once." 

He  relapsed  into  official  distance  immediately; 
atoning  for  the  touch  of  human  nature  that  the  new 
patient  had  aroused  in  him  by  a  preternatural  grav- 
ity and  impersonality  of  demeanor,  which  had  the 
effect  of  making  him  look  younger  than  ever;  at 
which  the  patient's  lips  twitched  disrespectfully  as 


SHUT  IN.  71 

they  carried  lier  up  the  walk  and  into  the  Hospital 
through  the  now  driving  and  inhospitable  rain. 

Left  to  herself  at  last,  oh,  left  alone  at  last ! 
Who  but  the  patient  knows  the  mercilessness  or  the 
mercy  of  solitude  ?  Hertha  Brand  took  hers  when 
she  got  it,  as  she  took  most  things,  in  ways  peculiar 
to  herself. 

All  the  preliminaries  were  over  ;  she  had  done  all 
the  proper  things  ;  answered  the  inquiries  as  to  the 
fatigue  of  her  journey ;  been  introduced  to  her 
nurse;  received  the  visit  of  the  assistant  house 
physician,  a  young  lady  who  regarded  her  with  some 
perplexity  beneath  a  set  of  bright  blonde  bangs  and 
over  a  particularly  stylish  ruif  ;  had  attempted  to  eat 
her  supper,  and  failed;  had  been  ordered  broth  at 
eight,  and  promised  to  try  ;  had  inquired  for  Dr. 
Von  Moltke,  and  been  told  that  he  would  call  to- 
morrow at  half -past  four;  had  said  good-night  to 
the  house  physician,  who  felt  her  pulse  with  an 
abashed  and  ladylike  forefinger,  and  (being  still 
young  in  his  profession)  expressed  some  impulsive 
sympathy  with  the  evident  exhaustion  of  the  pa- 
tient, who  had  the  originality  not  to  call  his  atten- 
tion to  it. 

The  assistant  house  physician  awaited  the  house 
physician  as  he  gently  replaced  the  screen  and  left 
the  bedside  of  the  patient  from  Michigan. 

Dr.  Mary  May  and  Dr.  Hall  walked  together  the 
length  of  the  ward  consulting  in  low  tones.  Her  yel- 
low bangs  wore  their  professional  aspect ;  her  little 
mouth  closed  primly.  She  was  ridiculously  pretty  ! 
She  was  one  of  the  sinuous  blondes  whom  men  sell 


72  SHUT  IN. 

their  minds  and  souls  for.  The  young  woman  in 
spectacles,  who  stood  six  ahead  of  Dr.  May  in  the 
medical  college  at  graduation,  was  indiscreet  enough 
to  affirm  that  Maiy  May  would  never  have  received 
the  appointment  if  she  had  not  been  a  stylish  girl ; 
but  it  is  possible  that  the  valedictorian's  vision  was 
astigmatic,  from  over-study  by  candle-ends  in  the 
cold  hall  bedroom  of  the  cheap  boarding-house, 
where  the  gas  was  turned  off  at  half-past  nine. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  the  case,  Doctor  ?  " '  asked 
Mary  May  respectfully.  It  was  her  nature  to  say 
to  the  house  physician,  "  What  do  you  think  ? " 
after  the  great  Von  Moltke  or  others  of  the  staff 
had  visited  a  case.  Wentworth  Hall  was  a  sensible 
little  fellow ;  but  he  responded  to  this  deference  as 
an  honest,  good-natured  dog  does  to  a  pat  on  the 
head ;  without  knoAving  it. 

"  Spinal,  I  think,"  said  Dr.  Hall,  with  a  little  im- 
portance, which  may  be  pardoned  to  him  ;  he  ap- 
proved of  Miss  May,  whose  feminine  nature  had  not 
been  vitiated  by  her  profession;  she  retained  that 
graceful  respect  for  the  natural  leaders  of  the  voca- 
tion which  — 

"  I  did  n't  know  but  you  would  think  it  hysteri- 
cal ?  "  suggested  Mary  May. 

Dr.  Hall  gave  the  blonde  bangs  a  manly,  direct 
look ;  not  the  personal,  but  the  professional  glance, 
that  Mary  May  knew  well,  and  liked  less  well. 

"  A  woman  with  those  eyes  never  has  hysteria," 
he  said,  with  unwonted  decision. 

"  I  should  value  your  opinion,  of  course,"  mildly 
replied  Mary  May. 

She  leaned  a  trifle  toward  him  in  that  instinctive 


SHUT  m.  73 

way  little  women  have  of  turning  toward  not  very- 
tall  men.  She  chatted  about  some  pleasant  things, 
laughing  as  she  talked ;  she  had  beautiful  teeth. 
Dr.  Hall  regarded  her  indulgently  as  they  passed 
through  the  soundless  doors  that  led  from  the  ward 
into  the  outer  world. 

.  .  .  Alone  at  last !  Oh,  alone  at  last !  Miss 
Brand  turned  her  face  upon  her  pillow  with  the  re- 
lief of  the  long  sigh  that  no  one  can  overhear.  She 
was  suffering  —  but  let  us  not  say  what.  So  idly 
we  are  in  the  habit  of  saying,  "  Only  God  knows," 
what  it  stands  to  reason  nobody  else  can  know,  that 
the  phrase  should  be  relegated  to  the  truisms.  The 
chronic  invalid  is  the  most  solitary  being  in  the 
world.  Between  himself  and  life  there  rises  a  wall 
of  stained  glass.  Because  we  of  the  outside  can  see 
through  it  here  or  there,  we  forget  that  we  never 
break  through  it.  We  skim  its  surface  like  flies  on 
the  face  of  the  globe  that  covers  a  piece  of  exquisite 
machinery;  we  are  no  nearer  most  of  the  time  to 
the  palpitating  movements  that  throb  within. 

Hertha  Brand  lay  upon  her  cot  patiently.  The 
screen  closed  in  about  her ;  the  wall  seemed  to 
reach  out  across  her  as  if  the  two  clasped  hands  to 
hold  her  there.  Beyond,  the  screen  of  the  next 
patient  rose  and  regarded  her.  There  were  two 
storks  and  a  bulrush  on  her  screen ;  there  were  two 
bulrushes  and  a  stork  upon  her  neighbor's  screen. 
The  wall  was  white.  The  neighbor  with  the  one 
stork  coughed;  the  invisible  neighbor  at  her  head 
behind  the  two  storks  groaned  ;  the  padded  doors  of 
the  long  ward  shut  with  their  little  muffled  thuds  as 


74  SHUT  IN. 

nurses  passed  in  or  out.  Once  she  heard  a  doctor's 
voice  —  Dr.  Hall's  —  soothing  a  sobbing  girl  at  the 
other  end  of  the  room.  Another  doctor's  chimed  in 
presently,  on  a  high,  inquisitive  key  ;  that  belonged 
to  the  professional  bangs.  Both  ceased  soon,  and 
such  silence  as  the  presence  of  so  much  suffering 
renders  possible  fell  upon  Hope  Hospital. 

"  This  is  my  world,"  said  Hertha  Brand.  "  God 
created  it." 

She  turned  her  head  toward  the  wall,  because  she 
could  turn  nothing  else  ;  she  was  too  exhausted  to 
move. 

"  It  is  something  not  to  have  to  look  at  those  two 
storks  all  night,"  she  thought.  "  Keally,  I  'm  quite 
fortunate.  The  wall  is  such  a  pleasant  change. 
And  no  paper  ?  That  is  the  height  of  pathological 
civilization." 

She  thought  of  the  paper  in  her  little  room  in 
Michigan,  that  barren  little  room  in  which  she  had 
lain  till  every  atom  of  it  was  hospitalized  from  her 
pathetic  presence.  That  paper  was  chocolate  and 
French  green  and  black ;  it  had  a  pattern  of  lizards 
and  locusts  and  figure  fours  and  ciphers.  The  liz- 
ards were  black  and  the  locusts  chocolate,  and  she 
had  counted  four  thousand  of  them  four  thousand 
times  four  thousand  times.  Besides,  there  was  a 
man  hanging  from  a  trellis  (or  to  that  effect)  in  a 
delicate  shade  of  amber  touched  with  red  about  the 
neck.  In  her  delirious  times  she  had  prayed  her 
step-mother  for  the  love  of  mercy  only  to  cut  down 
that  man. 

"  I  wonder  if  Father  misses  me  ? "  thought  the 
patient   from   Michigan.     "  Poor  Father !     I  did  n't 


SHUT  IN.  75 

make  him  very  much  trouble  ;  but  he  has  the  chil- 
dren, and  they  are  all  well." 

"  Hertha  Brand,  Schoolhouse,  Michigan.  Aged 
twenty-nine.     Has  not  icalked  for  seven  yearsP 

The  great  Dr.  Von  Moltke  paused  here,  and 
gave  one  unnecessary  look  (which  in  a  man  whose 
glances  have  a  par  value  of,  say,  five  dollars  a  min- 
ute or  a  dollar  a  wink,  goes  for  something)  at  the 
patient  whose  symptoms  he  did  the  honor  to  record 
in  his  celebrated  note-book.  He  was  not  an  imagi- 
native man,  it  is  safe  to  say  ;  but  a  vision  passed  be- 
fore the  surgeon  at  that  moment  of  what  it  might 
mean  to  be  bed-ridden  for  seven  years  —  in  School- 
house,  Michigan.  He  added  to  his  superfluous  look 
one  superfluous  question :  — 

*'  Is  Schoolhouse  a  —  large  place  ?  " 

"We  have  a  population  of  twenty-one  hundred. 
Twenty-one  hundred  and  one,  if  3^011  counted  me," 
answered  the  patient  from  Michigan. 

^^1  propose  to  count  you.  You  shall  go  back  as 
live  as  any  of  them.  Now,  Miss  Brand,  can  you 
answer  questions  sensibly  ?  I  have  no  time  to 
waste.     Understand  that !  " 

"  When  you  speak  to  me  properly,  sir,  I  will  try," 
replied  Miss  Brand,  with  a  snap  of  her  strong  eyes. 

"H'm-m-m."  The  great  man  laid  down  his 
note-book  and  looked  over  it  at  the  patient  with  a 
sort  of  infantile  astonishment.  He  had  never  been 
answered  in  that  manner  by  a  little  person.  He 
was  used  to  having  full  swing  (and  taking  it)  with 
his  clientele.  Everybody  was  afraid  of  him ;  he 
made  use  of  the  general  deference  as  he  did  of  any 
other  universal  pathological  law. 


76  SHUT  IN. 

"  H'm-iu  ! "  said  Dr.  Von  Moltke.  "  You  HI  get 
well ! " 

"  I  have  no  objections,  sir." 

"  Then,  if  you  please,  madam,  you  will  answer  my 
questions  as  well  as  you  know  how  ?  " 

"  Certainly  ;  with  pleasure." 

"  You  have  not  walked  for  seven  years  ?  " 

"  Seven  years." 

"  Accident  or  illness  ?  " 

"A  railroad  accident.  I  was  jarred.  After  that 
we  lay  in  the  snow,  and  I  froze  before  I  was  picked 
up." 

"  Pain  ever  since  ?  " 

"Ever  since." 

"  Unrelieved  ?  " 

"  Unrelieved." 

"  Here  ?  and  there  ?  and  there  ?  " 

"  Yes,  of  course ;  ■  and  there." 

"  Insomnia  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes." 

"  Serious  ?  " 

"It  depends  upon  your  standard.  They  said  in 
the  Inquisition  that  no  torture  brought  people  round 
to  the  Holy  Catholic  faith  so  quickly  as  enforced 
sleeplessness.  I  understand  that.  I  think  I  would 
become  a  cannibal  for  a  week's  sleep." 

'"  H'm-m-m.  Yes.  We  '11  stop  all  that,  you  under- 
stand.    How  did  you  get  here  ?  " 

"  My  friends  put  me  in  charge  of  the  conductor. 
The  brakemen  were  very  kind  to  me.  I  was  passed 
on  from  road  to  road.  There  were  some  passengers 
—  ladies  —  they  saw  to  my  meals.  I  got  along. 
Everybody  was  kind  to  me.     It  was  very  interesting 


SHUT  IN.  77 

I  had  my  ticket ;  like  a  corpse.  Did  you  know 
a  corpse  has  to  have  a  ticket  like  a  live  man  ?  If 
he  travels  alone  they  fasten  it  on  the  box.  I  got 
along  beautifully.  I  'm  used  to  getting  along,  you 
know.  The  jar  was  the  worst  —  and  it  took  a  good 
while  to  get  here.     That 's  all." 

"  Are  you  poor  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  of  course  I  'm  poor.  Sickness  is  so 
different,  I  should  think,  when  one  can  got  things. 
The  ladies  of  our  church  helped  Father  collect  for 
the  ticket  to  Boston.  I  never  had  to  take  charity 
before.  I  said  I  would  n't,  you  know.  But  I  did. 
You  said  you  could  cure  me." 

"  Who  takes  care  of  you  —  in  Schoolhouse,  Michi- 
gan ?  " 

"  My  step-mother  does  all  she  can.  She  is  very 
gopd.     She  has  five  children  under  six  years  old." 

"Noisy  ?     Did  you  mind  it  much  ?  " 

"  It  was  the  only  thing  I  ever  cried  about,  —  rainy 
days  when  they  were  all  at  home ;  and  Sundays  ; 
and  when  I  was  worse,  you  know.  Our  boys  wear 
copper-toed  shoes.  But  thei/  are  all  well.  Father  is 
well,  too.  So  is  she.  You  could  n't  expect  well 
people  to  understand  things,  could  you,  Doctor  ?  It 
is  n't  human  to  be  sick.  It  is  like  being  a  hunch- 
back —  it  is  deformed ;  nobody  understands.  Why, 
of  course  not.  I  would  n't  have  you  blame  my  peo- 
ple, Doctor.  They  are  very  kind  to  me.  They 
meant  to  be.  I  had  to  go  without  things.  There 
wasn't  anybody  to  look  after  me.  Why,  J  was  sick  ! 
—  I  have  read  about  wheeled-chairs.  I  never  saw 
one  till  I  came  here.  I  have  wanted  one  for  seven 
years.     But  I  got  along  nicely.     Oh,  I  got  along  !  " 


78  SHUT  IN. 

"  Can  you  read  ?  " 

"  Sometimes.  I  had  to  be  in  a  dark  room ;  but 
that  only  lasted  three  years.  Sometimes  I  can  read 
half  an  hour  a  day,  now.     It  is  such  a  comfort." 

"  Can  you  sew  ?  Play  games  ?  Receive  visits  ? 
How  have  you  occupied  your  time  ?  " 

*'I  can't  use  my  arms,  you  know.  One  year  I 
crocheted  a  tidy ;  but  I  had  to  give  it  up.  And 
then  my  room  was  so  cold.  We  could  n't  afford  a 
fire  ;  the  heat  came  in  from  the  sitting-room.  The 
door  had  to  be  kept  open.  In  cold  weather  I  had  to 
keep  my  arms  under  the  bed-clothes  to  keep  warm. 
But  I  play  dominoes  with  the  boys  sometimes.  But 
boys  jar  the  bed  so,  you  know.  I  can't  talk  very 
long  at  one  time  —  and  people  stay  a  good  while,  of 
course.  People  came  to  see  me.  But  they  all  came 
Sundays  and  always  at  four  o'clock,  after  church. 
That  hurt  me,  you  see.     I  had  to  stop." 

''How  in  —  Michigan,  have  you  occupied  these 
seven  years.  Miss  Brand  ?  " 

The  invalid's  large  eyes  narrowed  and  melted ;  a 
look  came  into  them  which  the  surgeon  could  not 
diagnose  ;  it  was  not  described  upon  the  pages  of 
any  of  his  volumes  of  therapeutics.  He  did  not  re- 
call having  noticed  it  as  recorded  even  in  the  origi- 
nal French  or  German. 

"You  would  n't  understand,  I  think,"  she  said 
softly. 

"  Then  enlighten  me  !  "  commanded  the  physician 
peremptorily. 

"  Why,  I  have  —  prayed  a  good  deal ;  if  you  in- 
sist on  knowing." 

'^Prayed?  Poor  occupation!  Worst  thing  in 
the  world  for  you  ! " 


SHUT  IN.  79 

"  I  had  n't  anything  else  to  do,"  said  Hertha  Brand 
simply.  "  There  was  no  harm  in  it,  was  there  ?  It 
helped  me  ;  that  was  all." 

The  surgeon  gave  the  patient  from  Michigan  one 
more  unnecessary  look.  It  was  a  piercing  look, 
long  and  grave.  He  did  not  smile.  He  perceived 
that  he  had  a  new  "  case  "  upon  his  distinguished 
note-book ;  which  he  shut  with  a  snap,  and  said  he 
would  call  to-morrow  morning. 

Now  when  he  had  gone  some  yards  away,  Dr.  Von 
Moltke  halted  in  his  resounding  stride  and  returned 
to  the  bedside  of  the  patient  from  Michigan.  This 
was  a  phenomenon.  The  surgeon  was  a  man  who 
never  returned  to  a  patient  when  the  visit  was  done. 
From  end  to  end  of  the  ward,  the  eyes  of  the  sick 
stirred  as  the  bodies  of  well  people  move  toward  an 
accident  or  incident  in  the  street.  The  Irishwoman 
beyond  the  storks  coughed  coquettishly  to  attract 
the  great  man's  attention  to  her  fatal  condition. 
The  religious  case  laid  down  her  Bible  and  groaned 
appealingly.  But  the  surgical  case  said  nothing 
funny  —  having  been  carried  to  the  Morgue  an  hour 
before.  As  for  Dr.  Mary  May,  she  raised  her  pretty 
eyebrows  inquiringly  to  Dr.  Hall. 

"  You  are  to  get  tvell,  you  understand  !  "  exploded 
Von  Moltke  fiercely.  "  There 's  to  be  no  nonsense 
about  it.     We  will  send  you  home  a  well  woman." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Hertha  Brand  gently. 
"  I  have  heard  doctors  say  that  before." 

"  Have  you  ever  heard  me  say  it  before  ?  "  de- 
manded Von  Moltke.  Over  his  large  face,  like  an 
electric  reflection,  passed  a  white  light  of  rage  ;  he 
was  called  magnificent  when  he  was  angry.     Miss 


80  SHUT  IN. 

Brand  laughed.  It  was  an  inconceivable  irreverence, 
but  she  did —  she  laughed. 

"  She  shows  fight,"  thought  the  medical  tyrant ; 
"  she  '11  do.  There  's  no  scare  in  her."  But  he  said 
nothing  to  the  fragile  rebel ;  he  never  complimented 
the  sick ;  he  regarded  her  intently,  bowed  mightily, 
and  left  the  ward  like  a  muzzled  cyclone. 

"  She  '11  fall  in  love  with  him,"  thought  the  house 
physician.     "  They  generally  do." 

"  Do  you  call  Dr.  Von  Moltke  a  handsome  man  ?  " 
asked  Mary  May  confidingly.     "  I  don't,  myself." 

Now  Christmas  week  came  to  Hope  Hospital  after 
all.  One  hardly  expected  it.  It  seemed  one  of  the 
things  that  must  pass  by  the  inmates  of  that  afflicted 
place  —  like  health,  or  joy  itself.  Out  in  the  world, 
beyond  the  dead  chrysanthemums,  beyond  the  mar- 
ble woman  in  the  fountain,  who  washed  the  marble 
boy's  face  with  icicles;  in  the  well,  live,  stirring, 
striving  world  Christmas  might  feel  at  home  ;  like  a 
heart  among  its  kindred  ;  but  here  — 

Yet  here  there  really  was  a  delightful  stir.  Her- 
tha  Brand  explained  to  the  West  End  patroness, 
who,  it  seemed,  represented  the  society  with  the 
short  name,  how  delightful  it  was.  The  pious  pa- 
tient had  finished  Lamentations,  and  was  reading 
aloud  the  beautiful  tale  of  the  Star  in  the  East.  To- 
day she  had  forgotten  to  read  her  Bible  aloud  at  all ; 
but  had  wept  joyfully  to  herself  over  the  Apocalypse, 
because  her  little  granddaughter  had  sent  her  some 
crocheted  mittens  of  a  brilliant  solferino  color  edged 
with  blue.  The  Irishwoman  had  given  up  dying  for 
a  day  or  two  ;  the  priest  himself  had  made  her  a 


SHUT  IN.  81 

Christmas  call,  and  her  son,  a  young  gentleman  con- 
sisting chiefly  of  freckles  and  an  odor  of  South  End 
livery  stables,  had  brought  her  a  paper  of  peanuts 
and  a  pound  of  red  rock-candy. 

"  She  has  n't  a  tooth  in  her  head,"  merrily  ex- 
plained Miss  Brand;  "but  she  is  perfectly  happy. 
Everybody  thinks  of  everybody,  and  everybody  thinks 
of  the  sick.  A  hospital  is  the  jolliest  place  I  ever 
spent  Christmas  in  in  all  my  life.  Christmas  cards 
flood  us  like  pellets ;  and  as  for  lace  bags  with  mixed 
candy  in  them  "  — 

"  I  represent  the  '  Shut-in  Society,'  "  interrupted 
the  lady  patroness  suavely.  ''  I  always  make  it  a 
point  to  visit  the  hospitals  at  Christmas.  Shall  I 
find  something  suitable  for  your  case  in  our  list  of 
publications  ?  " 

"I  know  your  Society,"  said  Miss  Brand  unex- 
pectedly. "  It 's  an  excellent  thing.  If  I  ever  get 
well,  I  am  going  to  try  to  improve  on  it.  You  have 
the  grandest  chances  of  any  association  in  this  coun- 
try, and  I  don't  wholly  like  the  way  you  use  them. 
Excuse  me,  madam,  —  I  may  have  had  no  fair  ex- 
perience, —  but  it  seems  to  me  you  give  one  too  many 
things  of  one  kind.  Now,  in  three  years  I  have  had 
sent  to  me  "  —  she  counted  on  her  thin  fingers  — 
"  so  many  tracts,  so  many  leaflets,  and  three  Testa- 
ments, and  nothing  else.  It  just  so  happened,  per- 
haps, but  they  were  all  religious  things.  It  seems  un- 
grateful to  mention  it,  when  people  mean  so  kindly. 
But  truly,  madam,  I  think  something  not  quite  so 
serious  now  and  then  would  be  a  good  thing,  don't 
you  ?  " 

"  You  are  not  a  religious  woman,  perhaps  ?  "  in- 
quired the  visitor,  politely. 


82  SHUT  IN. 

''  I  hope  so,  madam ;  I  try  to  be.  That  is  why  I 
object  to  your  methods.  When  I  am  President  of 
your  Society  I  sha'n't  slight  the  Bible,  but  I  shall 
add  Dickens,  and  Mark  Twain,  and  Frank  Stockton, 
and  '  Happy  Thoughts,'  and  '  Alice  in  Wonderland,' 
and  Edward  Lear's  '  Nonsense,'  and  oh,  madam,  in 
Heaven's  name,  something  to  make  us  smile  !  To 
make  us  smile  !  We  sha'n't  pray  any  the  less  for  it. 
No  fear  of  our  neglecting  the  other  world.  Why, 
it 's  all  we  've  got.  If  you  '11  only  try  to  make  this 
one  more  tolerable,  you  '11  do  us  the  best  turn  in  the 
power  of  all  the  societies  on  earth  to  do  the  sick  ! 
Oh,  amuse  us  —  amuse  us  if  you  can  !  " 

"  I  never  was  an  invalid,"  replied  the  visitor,  very 
prettily.  ''Perhaps  you  are  right.  I  only  have 
fevers  now  and  then.  You  ought  to  have  the  wisdom 
of  your  experience.     It  seems  a  hard  one." 

"  It  is  the  hardest  one  in  the  hospital,"  said  the 
house  physician  to  the  representative  of  the  "  Shut- 
ins  ; "  "  and  if  she  were  to  revolutionize  charity  to 
the  sick  as  she  has  done  this  ward,  the  w^orld  w^ould 
be  made  over,  madam,  shortly.  She  has  hardly  been 
here  two  months.  She  is  the  joy  of  this  place  al- 
ready, madam.  She  is  the  strength  of  it,  she  is  the 
comfort  of  it,  she  is  the  pluck  and  spirit  and  fun 
and  hope  of  it.  There  is  n't  a  patient  in  the  ward 
who  does  n't  love  her.  There  is  n't  a  doctor  here 
who  does  n't  respect  her.  She  thinks  less  of  herself 
and  more  of  other  people  than  any  sick  person  I  ever 
"knew.  She  has  a  remarkable  nature.  If  she  gives 
you  any  advice  about  the  treatment  of  invalids,  you  '11 
be  wise  if  you  listen  to  it,  in  my  opinion.  When  Dr. 
Von  Moltke  is  n't  here,   I  offer  my  opinion  some- 


SHUT  IN.  83 

times,"  added  the  house  physician,  with  a  frank, 
fine  smile  he  had  which  was  charming. 

"  That  poor  girl,"  continued  Dr.  Hall,  with  a  shade 
upon  his  sensitive  face,  "  is  to  undergo  —  within  live 
days  —  on  holiday  week  —  at  the  desire  of  the  Con- 
sulting Staff  —  one  of  the  deadliest  operations  known 
to  surgical  history.  She  did  n't  tell  you,  did  she  ? 
I  thought  not.  Most  of  us  make  more  fuss  over  fill- 
ing a  tooth.  She  is  superb.  She  is  supreme.  Good- 
morning,  madam.  Yes  ?  I  wish  you  would  bring 
her  some  flowers  on  jSTew  Year's  Day  —  if  she  lives 
so  long.  They  're  better  than  daily  texts  for  a  case 
like  hers.  I  don't  know  how  it  happens  ;  those  peo- 
ple of  hers  must  be  very  neglectful.  Nobody  sent 
her  anything  on  Christmas  —  not  even  a  card ;  forgot 
her,  I  suppose ;  she  never  complained  of  it,  but  she 
looked  sober  when  the  Christmas  mails  came  in. 
Most  of  the  patients  were  remembered  —  little  sou- 
venirs —  something.  All  she  said  was  :  '  Oh,  they  are 
all  busy  at  home.  They  are  all  well.  They  don't 
understand  what  it  is  to  be  sick,  and  fifteen  hundred 
miles  from  home.  It 's  natural  they  should  forget. 
Doctor.  It 's  all  right.  I  don't  mean  to  mind  it, 
Doctor.     They  love  me  just  as  much,  you  know.' " 

"  Poor  girl ! "  murmured  the  visitor  from  the  Shut- 
in  Society ;  her  eyes  filled.  "  We  will  try  to  make  it 
up  to  her,"  she  said. 

Dr.  Hall  returned  to  the  bedside  of  Miss  Brand ; 
his  face  was  glowing ;  their  eyes  met  with  a  sudden 
sweet  intelligence.  The  drama  had  moved  on  in  two 
months. 

Now  the  action  had  taken  a  tense  and  rapid  char- 
acter.     Hertha   Brand   had   distinguished  herself; 


84  SHUT  IN. 

she  had  not  fallen  in  love  with  the  great  Dr.  Von 
Moltke. 

The  young  physician  perceived  this  with  a  species 
of  personal  gratitude  ;  he  differed  from  Von  Moltke 
radically  about  the  case ;  in  which,  therefore,  he  took 
the  more  interest.  Between  himself  and  Hope  Hos- 
pital's favorite  patient  a  fine  feeling,  like  a  silken 
tie,  had  occurred.  He  called  it  sympathy.  She 
called  it  friendship.  She  had  a  divine  ease  and  un- 
consciousness with  him.  She  had  the  invalid's  sacred 
protection  from  misapprehension.  She  was  shut  in 
to  her  lot  like  a  sweet  nun  into  her  cell.  She  was 
like  the  spirits  in  Heaven  who  neither  marry  nor 
are  given  in  marriage.  She  regarded  him  trustfully. 
She  leaned  upon  him  with  the  piteous  weakness  of 
strength  disabled.  His  fine  quality  pervaded  her 
delicate  being  like  an  atmosphere. 

"  "VATiat  day  has  he  set  for  the  operation  ?  "  asked 
Dr.  Hall,  abruptly. 

"  To-morrow  at  three,"  composedly  said  Hertha 
Brand. 

"  To-morrow  ?  I  did  not  think  —  but  Von  Moltke 
pushes  things  when  his  mind  is  set.  I  suppose  he 
has  explained  to  you  the  nature  of  the  —  risk  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes.  Hs  seems  to  be  an  honorable  man.  He 
told  me  about  it.  He  said  it  was  my  only  chance. 
He  ordered  it.  I  am  his  patient.  So  I  said  I  would 
do  it.     That 's  all." 

"  You  understand,"  pursued  the  house  phj'sician, 
frowning,  "  that  the  removal  of  such  a  growth  from 
the  liver  —  assuming  that  his  diagnosis  is  correct 
and  that  any  such  thing  exists  in  your  case  —  you 
understand,  Miss  Brand,  that  only  one  such  instance 


SHUT  IN.  85 

is  known  in  medical  history  ?  You  understand  that 
only  one  surgeon  has  ever  performed  this  —  difficult 

—  operation  successfully  ?  You  understand  that 
Von  Moltke  has  never  done  it  ?  " 

"  He  thinks  he  can  do  what  any  other  man  can,  I 
suppose,"  quietly  replied  Miss  Brand ;  "  and  that 
other  patient  lived.     He  had  four  tumors  removed 

—  without  ether  —  and  he  lived." 

"  He  was  a  man,"  shortly  answered  the  house 
physician,  "and  an  Arctic  explorer;  and  Helling- 
pfeifter  of  New  York  did  it." 

A  flush  passed  over  the  invalid's  pale  and  tender 
face;  she  did  not  turn  her  eyes  toward  the  house 
physician,  but  her  profile  on  the  white  pillow  had  a 
vivid  consciousness,  expressive,  like  language. 

"  I  have  trusted  Dr.  Von  Moltke  ! "  she  said, 
quickly.  "  That  is  what  I  am  here  for.  I  have 
trusted  him ! " 

"You  may  not  know,"  replied  Wentworth  Hall, 
in  his  turn  not  regarding  her,  "  that  there  exists  at 
the  present  time  an  intensifying  conflict  between 
surgery  and  other  forms  of  medical  treatment.  There 
is  a  cultus  —  a  tendency  —  on  the  one  hand  to  the 
extreme  measure.  Everything  goes  to  the  knife. 
It  is  the  first  appeal.  It  ought  to  be  the  last ;  like 
the  sword  in  human  aifairs.  Gentler  (and  safer) 
measures  exist ;  they  should  be  tried  first.  The  true 
treatment  —  the  exact  remedy  —  the  ideal  hygiene 

—  these  form  our  basis  of  hope  and  effort.  Von 
Moltke  is  a  surgeon.  But,"  added  Wentworth  Hall 
beneath  his  breath,  "  he  is  the  first  consulting  power 
of  this  hospital.     I  am  only  the  house  physician." 

Hertha  Brand  turned  her  sweet  face  impulsively 


86  SHUT  IN. 

toward  him.     Their  eyes  found  each  other  now  in  a 
long  look. 

'*  What  would  happen,"  she  asked,  after  a  silence, 
''  if  it  were  known  that  you  have  —  warned  —  that 
you  have  been  so  noble  —  that  you  have  said  to  me 
what  you  have  ?  " 

''  Oh,  it  would  cost  me  my  position,  of  course,"  he 
answered,  quietly.  "  I  have  done  an  unprofessional 
act,"  he  added  in  a  lower  tone.  "  I  have  "  —  he 
broke  off  in  agitation,  and  turned  his  chair  slightly 
away  from  her. 

"  Do  you  mean,"  insisted  the  patient,  "  that  you 
object  to  the  operation  ?  That  you  consider  it  un- 
necessary ?  Even  very  dangerous  ?  Possibly  mur- 
derous ?  " 

The  house  physician  made  no  reply.  Over  his 
young,  averted  face  the  signs  of  a  high  struggle  were 
moving,  like  the  shadows  from  the  wings  of  two 
spirits. 

"  Perhaps  you  don't  even  think  that  I  have  the 
trouble  he  wants  to  cut  me  up  for  ?  " 

But  Wentworth  Hall  kept  silence  still.  Uninten- 
tionally, all  but  unconsciously,  he  had  slipped  into 
an  extraordinary  situation ;  the  refinement  of  its 
complication  gave  it  a  kind  of  interest  to  which,  be- 
cause the  refinement  is  so  evident,  we  are  not  apt  to 
attach  the  name  of  moral  emergency ;  it  may  not 
the  less  deserve  it.  On  the  one  hand,  professional 
etiquette,  ethics,  honor  itself,  stood  guard  over  the 
young  man's  next  movement  in  this  delicate  game. 
All  the  promise  of  his  life  warned  him.  His  fate 
held  up  a  firm  forefinger.  His  future  hung  upon  a 
motion  of  his  lips,  nay,  upon  a  glance  of  the  eye. 


SHUT  IN.  87 

On  one  side,  the  code  of  all  his  world,  the  glamour 
of  assured  success,  the  control  of  the  customary  view 
of  things  persuaded  him.  On  the  other,  lay  nothing 
but  a  helpless  creature  ;  the  duty,  the  doubtful  and 
difficult  duty,  of  a  well  man  toward  a  sick  woman  — 
that  was  all.  He  could  not  look  at  her.  His  fair 
face  flushed.  He  felt  his  soul  and  body  wrenched 
within  him. 

"■  Do  you  disagree  with  the  diagnosis  ?  "  persisted 
Miss  Brand,  in  a  low,  clear  tone.  "  Do  you  think  I 
need  not  undergo  —  all  that  ?  That  I  shall  die  ? 
If  I  were  your  patient,  would  you  not  do  it  ?  If  I 
were  your  patient,  what  would  you  do  with  me  ?  " 

The  flush  upon  the  house  physician's  cheek  gave 
place  to  a  pallor  that  was  almost  pitiful ;  it  aroused 
the  pity  of  the  doomed  woman.  She  smiled  upon 
him  like  a  seraph  ;  gently  lifting  her  pain-pinched 
face. 

"  Poor  fellow  !  "  she  said  —  "  poor  fellow.  I  will 
not  ask  you.  Do  not  answer  me.  Never  mind  !  It 
does  n't  matter  very  much.     Don't  trouble  about  it." 

"Miss  Brand,"  said  Wentworth  Hall,  in  a  ring- 
ing voice,  "  I  shall  answer  you.     Look  at  me  !  " 

She  obeyed  him ;  in  her  large  eyes  the  outcry  of 
life  and  death,  of  ignorance,  helplessness,  hopeless- 
ness, of  all  that  appeals  to  the  healer,  and  bewilders 
the  sick  ;  in  his,  the  utter  truth.  It  needed  no  word, 
and  had  none.  His  lips  needed  to  do  no  treason  to 
his  hospital.  But  his  eyes  were  true  to  her.  She 
pressed  his  hand  silently.     He  bowed  and  left  her. 

Dr.  Mary  May  nestled  toward  him,  as  he  turned 
away  ;  his  emotion  was  visible.  She  crooned  over 
him,  and  told  him  how  tired  he  looked.    She  was  glo- 


88  SHUT  IX. 

rious  that  morning ;  her  well,  young  blood  bounded 
in  waves  of  brilliant  color  across  her  rounded  cheek  ; 
she  blossomed  in  this  diseased  place,  the  one  flower 
of  health  and  charm  and  delight.  It  was  a  rest  to 
look  at  her.  He  did  look  at  her ;  he  always  did. 
Hertha  Brand  could  not  see  the  look.  She  observed 
the  motion  patiently  ;  she  knew  that  he  loved  Mary 
May ;  she  thought  it  natural ;  Dr.  May  was  quite  a 
well  woman  —  and  how  pretty !  Any  man  might 
love  her.  Friendship  —  compassion  —  these  were  not 
like  that ;  it  was  her  duty  to  be  glad  ;  she  was  glad  ; 
she  thought  of  it  as  impersonally  as  a  ghost  might. 

"  God  bless  him  !  "  she  whispered,  talking  to  her- 
self as  the  solitary  sick  do  ;  and  gently  turned  her 
face  away.  The  hand-organ  on  Harmony  Street  was 
playing.  She  lay  and  listened  to  it  for  quite  a  while. 
It  was  playing  :  — 

"Let  me  alone, 
For  my  grief  is  my  own  !  " 

"  Not  undergo  the  operation  ?  " 

The  great  surgeon  wheeled  about  like  a  pillar  of 
fire ;  while  he  towered  above  the  panting  patient,  he 
seemed  to  writhe,  as  a  tall,  living  flame  does. 

"  But  every  preparation  is  made  !  The  Consulting 
Staff  will  be  present.  It  is  a  very  interesting  case  ! 
I  have  telegraphed  Hellingpfeiffer  of  New  York  to 
be  present.  .  .  .  What  do  you  mean  ? "  he  thun- 
dered. 

"I  —  I  am  very  —  sorry,  sir." 

For  the  first  time  Hertha  Brand  quailed  before 
the  celebrated  tyrant.  She  had  been  so  brave  all  her 
life  !    Perhaps   her  pluck  had  been  her  one  little 


SHUT  IN.  89 

adorable  vanity  ;  she  had  always  been  called  such  a 
courageous  invalid !  She  had  come  up  to  the  edge 
of  the  knife  without  wincing.  Now  she  crawled 
away,  like  a  deserter.  She  felt  that  the  reputation 
of  her  life  was  gone  ;  the  glory  of  her  fate  had  de- 
parted from  her  ;  she  would  pass  for  a  coward  all 
her  days.  And  she  had  not  a  reason  to  give ;  not 
one.  She  was  dumb.  For  unpardonable  weakness, 
for  criminal  ingratitude  to  the  hospital  that  had 
cherished  her,  for  vacillation  disgraceful  to  a  child 
who  had  an  appointment  at  the  dentist's,  she  must 
be  known  and  remembered,  as  the  well  and  the 
powerful  remember  the  follies  of  the  sick  and  the 
weak.  And  yet  by  all  that  was  honorable  in  woman 
or  in  patient  she  must  be  dumb. 

"  I  have  —  a  reason,"  she  panted,  "  I  cannot  ex- 
plain. I  do  not  expect  to  be  understood.  I  know  I 
must  seem  —  unpardonable.  Forgive  me,  Doctor  ! 
You  have  been  good  to  me.  I  have  trusted  you. 
You  have  helped  me ;  you  have  given  me  my  only 
hope  of  life.  I  thank  you.  Doctor.  I  know  how 
kindly  you  mean  by  me,  but  oh,  forgive  me  !  I  can- 
not undergo  the  operation  to-morrow.  I  ask  a  fort- 
night's reprieve  —  a  week's  "  — 

"  Not  a  week  ! "  blazed  the  angry  surgeon.  "  Busy 
men  like  this  Consulting  Staff  can't  dance  attendance 
on  the  whims  of  sick  girls  —  of  charity  patients,"  he 
began  to  say  —  he  did  so  far  forget  himself ;  he  was 
the  angriest  man  in  his  profession  in  Boston  that 
holiday  week  ;  then  he  stopped,  for  he  felt  ashamed ; 
he  looked  at  her  refined,  patient,  piteous  profile,  and 
he  felt  ashamed.     He  pushed  his  chair  back  fiercely. 

"  I  have  nothing  more  to  say  to  you.  Miss  Brand  ! 


90  SHUT  IN. 

I  abandon  the  case  !  Hope  Hospital  abandons  the 
case !  You  are  at  liberty  to  return  to  Schoolhouse, 
Michigan  —  and  the  village  doctor  —  whenever  you 
choose  !     Good-morning,  madam  !  "  — 

"  Stay  a  minute,"  urged  Hertha  Brand,  who  had 
now  regained  her  composure.  "I  don't  blame  you, 
Dr.  Von  Moltke,  for  being  displeased  with  me.  I 
have  no  reasons  —  that  I  am  at  liberty  to  give  — 
suitable  to  account  for  my  conduct  in  your  eyes. 
But  they  told  me  women  fell  in  love  with  you,  sir ! 
I  was  expected  to  do  it  myself,  I  believe.  How  is 
it.  Doctor  ?  Tell  me !  How  can  a  woman  love  a 
man  who  blackguards  a  patient  ?  A  —  charity  pa- 
tient, too  —  as  you  said." 

But  the  great  surgeon  and  his  great  wrath  had 
thundered  from  the  ward.  The  exhausted  patient 
turned  upon  her  cot,  and  fainted  roundly,  which, 
under  the  circumstances,  was  a  luxury  she  had  no 
reason  to  expect,  not  being  a  fainting  woman. 

She  felt  better  for  this  period  of  unconsciousness, 
so  rare  in  her  life  of  suffering  that  she  looked  upon 
it  gratefully,  and  in  the  evening,  when  she  Avas  left 
to  herself,  she  thought  it  all  over  and  bravely  laid 
her  pitiful  plans.  She  must  go  back.  Hope  Hos- 
pital could  shelter  her  despair  no  longer.  She 
would  go  back  to  Schoolhouse,  Michigan ;  she  would 
crawl  into  her  own  old  bed  in  the  little  bedroom 
where  she  had  lain  for  seven  years.  The  door 
would  be  open  to  let  in  what  they  called  the  heat 
from  the  sitting-room  iire  ;  she  would  put  her  arms 
under  the  clothes  to  keep  warm ;  the  boys  with 
their  copper-toed  shoes  would  come  stamping  in ; 
her  mother  would  bring  her  breakfast  and  ask  her 


SHUT  IN.  91 

how  she  felt  this  morning ;  her  father  would  say  it 
was  a  pity  to  have  had  all  this  eayense  and  come 
home  as  bad  as  ever  ;  the  family  would  gossip  over 
her ;  the  neighbors  would  call  upon  her  Sunday  after- 
noons at  four  o'clock ;  she  would  lie  and  look  at  the 
green  and  chocolate  paper ;  she  would  count  the 
man  hanging  from  the  trellis  four  thousand  times 
four  thousand  times. 

She  had  written  home,  poor  thing,  though  hear- 
ing nothing,  —  a  Christmas  letter,  a  farewell  letter 
touchingly  full  of  love  and  gratitude,  when  one  con- 
sidered how  little  she  had  to  be  grateful  for ;  a  let- 
ter telling  them  about  the  crisis,  and  how  it  would 
be  all  over  when  they  got  this,  either  for  well  or  ill ; 
she  had  left  one  or  two  of  her  little  books  and  the 
trifles  of  her  barren  life  to  "  those  who  loved  her," 
her  father  and  one  of  the  boys  who  kissed  her  Avhen 
he  played  dominoes,  and  a  neighbor  or  so,  who 
raised  the  money  for  the  ticket  on  to  Boston. 

She  had  said  her  cheerful  little  good-by  words,  in 
case  it  went  wrong  with  her ;  but  had  told  them  she 
was  sure  it  would  go  right,  and  that  she  should  come 
home  to  them  a  well  creature  —  a  live  woman  ;  the 
cured  patient  of  Hope  Hospital ;  "  their  loving,  happy, 
hopeful  Hertha."  Thus  she  had  signed  and  sealed 
and  sent  her  Christmas  letter  home.  And  she  had 
added  a  postscript  and  asked  her  old  minister  to 
pray  for  her ;  that  was  the  way  one  did  in  School- 
house,  Michigan.  She  liked  the  old  minister,  and 
she  was  tired  of  her  own  prayers ;  they  seemed  to 
have  all  betrayed  her  lately.  She  had  the  not  un- 
common experience  of  unseltish  invalids,  that  for 
years  she  had  scarcely  prayed  for  herself,  only  for 


92  SHUT  IN. 

other  people ;  people  she  knew  who  suffered  or 
needed ;  her  sacred  inner  life  had  been  full  of  them, 
and  theirs.  Since  she  came  to  Hope  Hospital  she 
had  prayed  sometimes  for  herself,  for  cure,  for  life 
itself.  It  had  seemed  natural  here.  And  what  had 
come  to  her  ?  Misled  !  misled  !  All  on  the  wrong 
path ;  all  a  mistake  ;  going  back  to  INIichigan  !  Un- 
cured  —  incurable.  "  Now,"  thought  Hertha  Brand, 
with  her  healthy  good  sense,  "  either  I  have  prayed 
too  much  for  myself,  or  not  enough.  One  or  the 
other.  I  wonder  which.  .  ,  .  Lord,"  she  cried,  "  tell 
me !  "  She  did  not  often  cry.  But  she  began  to 
sob  now,  behind  the  screen  with  the  two  storks  and 
the  bulrush.  She  folded  her  wasted  hands  like  a 
child,  and  so,  in  this  manner,  prayed  she :  — 

"  God !  What  shall  I  do  ?  Lord  God,  what  shall 
I  do?  I  am  a  sick  woman  —  weak  —  incurable  —  I 
have  been  in  bed  for  seven  years.  I  suffer  all  the 
time.  Thou  Almighty  !  put  thy  strength  upon  me. 
Even  thine,  upon  even  'me.  Give  me  thy  nerve,  thy 
good  sense,  thy  power  of  deciding  what  to  do.  I  am 
in  a  hard  place  —  oh,  I  am  in  a  tough  place.  I  have 
lost  my  pluck,  I  am  worn  out.  I  dread  the  journey 
back  to  Michigan  —  it  was  so  hard.  I  'm  afraid 
they  won't  be  very  glad  to  see  me,  I  am  so  expensive 
to  them.  It  does  n't  seem  to  me  as  if  I  could  go 
back  into  that  room  —  that  cold  room  —  and  that 
wall-paper  —  and  lie  there  for  seven  j^ears  to  come  ! 
Great  God  !  it  may  be  seventeen ;  it  might  be  twenty- 
seven  —  oh,  or  more  than  that !  I  'm  only  twenty- 
nine  years  old.  I  may  live  to  be  an  old  woman.  .  .  . 
It  seems  as  if  I  could  not,  could  not  bear  it.  Dear 
Lord,  I  Avill  bear  it  if  I  must ;  I  will  try,  —  oh,  I  will 


SHUT  IN.  93 

try  hard.  But  if  there  is  any  way  I  can  be  told, 
if  I  can  be  shown  what  to  do  to  get  better,  or  if  only 
just  what  I  ought  to  do,  whether  I  can  get  better 
or  not  —  or  if  I  ought  to  have  gone  through  that 
operation  —  just  a  sign  !  I  pray  thee  have  mercy 
upon  me,  for  I  won't  ask  anything  unreasonable, 
not  any  miracle  nor  silly  favor  done  to  me  —  but 
just  a  sign  !  Almighty  God,  thou  Healer  of  the 
souls  and  the  bodies  of  all  mankind  !  Thou  great 
Physician  of  all  sick  people  "... 

"  Fire  !     Oh,  fire,  fire  !  " 

This  cry  so  terrible  in  all  human  homes,  so  hide- 
ous in  the  hospital  for  the  helpless  sick,  crashed 
into  Hertha  Brand's  prayer,  and  rang  and  resounded 
through  the  ward.  Wails  of  horror  and  pleas  for 
mercy  faltered  through  the  wretched  place.  In  an 
instant  a  panic  had  set  in.  Worse  than  fire  threat- 
ened. Hertha  pushed  aside  her  screen  and  looked 
quietly  out ;  she  was  so  used  to  being  helpless,  and 
had  so  often  thought  how  she  would  act  in  case  of 
fire,  that  it  came  quite  natural  to  her  to  be  self-pos- 
sessed. She  saw  it  all  in  an  instant.  And  this  was 
what  she  saw. 

Dr.  Mary  May  was  going  to  a  party  that  night. 
It  was  her  "evening  off."  She  had  come  into  the 
ward  on  some  errand,  real  or  apparent,  at  the  bed- 
side of  the  Irishwoman  who  never  lived  till  morn- 
ing; and  she  had  come,  being  hurried,  and  about 
to  get  into  her  wraps  for  her  carriage,  in  her  thin 
evening  dress. 

She  had  brought,  contrary  to  custom,  a  lighted 
candle  in  her  hand,  which  she  had  set  down  upon 
the  table  by  the  Irishwoman's   cot.     A   nurse   had 


94  SHUT  IN. 

opened  a  door  suddenly,  —  the  wind  blew  a  gale  that 
night,  —  the  ventilators  were  open,  a  violent  draught 
had  swept  Mary  May's  blue  lace  draperies  into  the 
flame  of  the  candle.  (By  the  way,  it  was  a  blue 
candle,  to  match  her  dress  —  but  Dr.  Hall  was  out.) 
The  amount  of  it  was  that  Mary  May  was  in  a  blaze. 
The  cry  of  Fire !  came  from  her  own  professional 
lips ;  and  the  panic  among  the  sick  followed,  as 
it  must.  No  doctor  was  in  the  room.  The  only 
nurses  stood  like  paralytics.  So  poor  Mary  May 
burned  on.  Then  swifter  than  fire  flashed  through 
the  bedridden  invalid's  being,  these  words  :  — 

"  She  will  burn  to  death  before  my  eyes.  They 
have  all  lost  their  wits.  Nobody  will  touch  her. 
And  he  loves  herP 

In  an  instant,  God  knew  how,  she  had  done  the 
deed.  In  a  moment,  she  who  had  not  put  her  foot 
upon  the  ground  for  seven  years  had  sprung,  had 
dashed,  had  reeled  upon  the  burning  girl,  and  drag- 
ging the  blankets  off  her  cot,  rolled  them  about  and 
about  the  blue  lace  figure,  smothered  down  the  blaze, 
and  pushed  the  pretty  victim  to  the  ground,  where 
strong  arms  of  nurses  gathered  her,  and  so  the  thing 
was  done.  Saved  and  sobbing,  Mary  May  was 
carried  off  to  have  her  burns  dressed  —  they  were 
not  important,  but  they  smarted.  Dr.  Hall  carried 
her.     She  forgot  to  thank  Miss  Brand. 

In  the  uproar  of  the  startled  ward  Hertha  Brand 
stood  in  her  white  night-dress,  radiant,  illuminated, 
like  the  body  in  the  sketch  of  William  Blake  that 
rises,  rapturous,  to  meet  his  soul  at  the  Resurrection 
Day.  Patients  cried  out  to  her,  but  she  heard  no- 
thing.    Many  blessed  her,  but  she  did  not  respond  to 


SHUT  IN.  95 

their  blessing.  Nurses  gathered  about  her  and  chat- 
tered, praising  her ;  but  she  did  not  answer. 

"  Howly  Mother,  will  they  lave  her  sthandin'  on 
her  blissid  bare  feet,  begorra ! "  cried  the  Irish- 
woman. "  Bedad,  they  would  n't  do  so  nuich  by  a 
rale  corrups  in  Ireland  !  " 

"  Come,"  said  her  own  nurse,  gently;  "  let  us  carry 
you  back  to  bed." 

"  Carry  me !  "  cried  the  incurable  invalid.  She 
put  one  bare  foot  before  the  other,  walked  out  as  she 
was,  straight  into  the  middle  of  the  ward,  turned, 
and  steadily,  like  a  soldier,  marched  back  to  bed. 
When  she  got  there,  she  sank  upon  her  knees,  and 
the  nurse,  for  she  dared  not,  did  not  touch  her.  She 
only  put  a  coverlet  softly  across  the  shoulders  of 
her  patient's  night-dress,  and,  being  fond  of  Miss 
Brand,  knelt  down  and  prayed  beside  her. 

But  the  religious  patient,  who,  before  the  fire,  had 
been  reading  the  Imprecatory  Psalms,  sat  up  in  bed 
like  a  Christian  woman,  and  began  to  sing  :  — 

"  Praise  God,  from  whom  all  blessings  flow  !  " 

It  is  a  touching  fact  that  the  sick  people  in  the 
ward  where  Hertha  Brand  was  so  beloved  did  join 
the  religious  patient,  and  sang  the  Doxology  roundly, 
from  end  to  end. 

''  I  thought  it  was  hysterics,"  said  Mary  May, 
sweetly,  when  she  heard  about  it  all. 

She  had  the  indiscretion  to  say  this  to  Dr.  Hall. 
He  regarded  her  in  the  strong  silence  of  a  man  to 
whose  feeling  for  herself  a  woman  has  given  the  final, 
fatal  touch.  There  was  nothing  to  be  said.  He  pre- 
scribed kindly  for  Dr.  May ;  and,  with  bowed  head, 


06  SHUT  IN. 

and  hands  clasped,  he  came  to  the  bedside  of  the 
patient  from  Michigan. 

He  found  her  sitting  upon  her  cot,  dressed  in  her 
brown  dress  and  little  invalid  cap,  trying  to  mend 
her  old  brown  gloves.  She  looked  very  pale,  and 
sweet,  and  happy. 

"  I  am  getting  ready,"  she  said,  ''  to  go  back  to 
Michigan." 

But  Wentworth  Hall  shook  his  head. 

"  You  will  stay,"  he  said —  "  with  me." 

"  With  you  ?  " 

"  I  shall  take  you  to  my  mother's  house.  You 
shall  be  nvirsed  and  cared  for.  I  shall  make  you  a 
well  woman.  You  have  trusted  me  —  a  young,  un- 
known practitioner  —  against  Von  Moltke's  terrible 
reputation.  I  shall  justify  j^our  trust,  please  God  ; 
as  you,  thank  God,  have  justified  my  diagnosis. 
Some  time  —  some  other  time,"  he  said  in  great 
agitation,  "  if  you  care  for  me  —  enough  —  or  learn 
to  —  we  will  see.  .  .  .  You  have  grown  unbearably 
dear  to  me,  Hertha  Brand.  1  don't  know  what  I  am 
to  do  about  it.  You  brave,  sweet  girl !  You  plucky 
—  glorious  —  tender  —  you  "  — 

*'  Oh,  Jmsh  !  "  cried  Hertha  Brand. 

One  thing  remained  to  do ;  and  he  did  it.  Dr. 
Wentworth  Hall  went  like  a  man  to  the  great  and 
terrible  surgeon.  He  told  him  all ;  he  kept  back  no 
part  of  the  professional  price.  It  was  easier,  per- 
haps, because  he  could  afford  to,  now  ;  a  man  could 
afford  anything  who  had  beaten  Von  Moltke  on  diag- 
nosis. But  let  us  believe  (as  she  did  who  trusted 
him)  that  he  would  have  done  it  at  all  events. 


SHUT  IX.  97 

"  I  have  broken  the  code  of  professional  etiquette, 
Dr.  Von  Moltke,"  said  the  young  man,  with  proud 
humility,  "  for  the  sake  of  a  suffering  patient.  That, 
unfortunately,  is  unpardonable  in  our  vocation.  I 
realize  what  my  duty  is.  I  will  leave  Hope  Hospital 
as  soon  as  you  can  supply  my  place.  Miss  Brand 
will  accompany  me  —  to  my  mother's  home.  I  shall 
take  her  case  immediately  under  my  supervision,  and 
treat  it  on  my  own  theory.  If  I  can  cure  her  and 
win  her  —  or,  if  I  can  win  her,  whether  I  cure  her  or 
not  —  I  shall  make  her  my  wife.  It  rests  with  her- 
self. I  have  no  more  to  say.  It  is  not  a  case  we 
need  to  discuss,  I  think.  My  respect  for  your- 
self "  — 

"  Never  mind  your  respect  for  me  /  "  roared  the 
great  man.     "  I  'm  going  to  see  that  girl ! " 

He  came  to  her  —  tame  as  a  cosset.  His  fine  face 
was  melted ;  like  hard  metal  in  a  white  heat.  He 
found  her  sitting  in  an  easy-chair  before  an  open  fire 
at  the  end  of  the  ward.  She  rose  and  advanced  to 
greet  him.  He  held  out  his  large,  white  hands,  and 
took  her  fragile  one  in  both  of  his.  He  began  imme- 
diately, without  the  superfluous,  as  his  way  was. 

"I  have  heard  of  such  cases.  We  had  a  pa- 
tient here  once  for  three  years.  We  all  pronounced 
her  incurable  with  spinal  disease.  She  became  en- 
gaged to  the  janitor,  and  got  well  in  three  weeks. 
Don't  blush.  I  don't  locate  this  case  on  that  line. 
There  are  others  on  record.  You  come  under  the 
class  of  cure  by  shocks.  The  shock  was  the  battery 
to  you.  You  might  have  fooled  with  electricity  for 
years  and  nothing  come  of  it.  You  needed  the  bat- 
tery to  body  and  mind.   You  got  it,  somehow.    There 


98  SHUT  IN. 

was  a  motive  there.  I  don't  propose  to  dissect  that. 
But  it  may  be  the  Law  of  Sacrifice  for  aught  1  know. 
It  is  a  powerful  pathological  agent. 

"  Miss  Brand,  I  was  wrong.  I  made  a  mistake  in 
diagnosis.  I  lost  my  temper  with  you.  ...  I  beg 
your  jmr-diOxi" 

He  uttered  the  last  words  with  the  great  gentle- 
ness of  great  strength  ;  and,  when  he  went,  he  left 
her  in  tears. 

They  passed  out  of  the  hospital  together,  —  the 
dismissed  patient  and  the  house  physician  resigned. 
She  walked  to  the  carriage  leaning  upon  his  arm. 
The  nurses  and  the  convalescent  patients  gathered 
affectionately  to  see  her  go.  Mary  May  was  not  vis- 
ible, being  still  obliged  to  nurse  a  scar  beneath  her 
bright  blonde  bangs. 

It  was  a  gentle  day,  warm  and  fair.  The  hand- 
organ  on  Harmony  Street  was  playing :  — 

"  I  'd  shelter  thee !  I  'd  shelter  thee !  " 

As  Hertha  passed  by  the  chrysanthemum  bushes, 
where  the  snow  had  melted  from  the  fine  brown 
stalks,  and  past  the  marble  woman  who  washed  the 
marble  boy's  face  with  nothing  less  than  the  divine 
sunshine  to-day ;  as  they  passed  on  together  out  of 
Hope  Hospital  into  the  free  life,  she  was  so  silent 
that  he  turned  and  asked  her  how  it  was  with  her, 
thinking,  perhaps,  she  might  be  lost  in  tender 
thoughts. 

"  When  I  am  well,"  she  whispered,  "  oh,  when  I 
am  a  well  woman,  I  shall  give  my  life  itself  to  the 
Rick.     T  will  make  their  world  all  over.    I  will  make 


SHUT  IN.  99 

it  what  nobody  else  has  ever  made  it.  I  will  do  — 
God  teach  me,"  she  added  humbly,  "  what  I  shall  do* 
No  well  person  knows.  I  am  so  glad  I  have  suffered. 
I  thank  God  I  understand." 

"  But,"  pleaded  the  young  man,  ruefully,  "  what 
part  of  your  life  is  to  be  left  for  me  ?  " 

"  The  first  choice,"  she  said,  "  and  the  best.  Will 
that  do  ?  " 

He  lifted  her  into  the  carriage,  trembling  more 
than  she.  It  was  a  close  carriage,  and  he  drew  the 
curtains.  As  they  left  Hope  Hospital  for  the  living 
world  where  joy  replaces  hope,  and  energy  super- 
sedes patience,  and  sacrifice  and  love  and  delight  are 
one  —  their  lips  met.  Love  radiantly  undertook  to 
finish  the  "  case  "  that  trust  and  courage  had  begun. 

"  Together,"  he  cried,  "  we  will  cure  the  world  ! " 

But  the  hand-organ  on  Harmony  Street  put  in 
madly  at  that  moment :  — 

"Oh,  't  is  Love,  't  is  Love,  't  is  Love,  that  makes  the  world  go 
round !  ' ' 

And  it  was  pretty  in  the  agent  of  the  •'  Shut  Ins  " 
to  remember  to  send  her  flowers  on  New  Year's  Day 
—  at  his  mother's  house. 


JACK  THE  FISHERMAN. 
I. 

Jack  was  a  Fairharbor  boy.  This  might  be  to 
say  any  of  several  things  ;  but  it  is  at  least  sure  to 
say  one,  —  he  was  a  fisherman,  and  the  son  of  a  fish- 
erman. 

When  people  of  another  sort  than  Jack's  have 
told  their  earthly  story  through,  the  biography,  the 
memorial,  the  obituary  remains.  Our  poet,  preacher, 
healer,  politician,  and  the  rest  pass  on  to  this  polite 
sequel  which  society  has  ordained  for  human  exist- 
ence. When  Jack  dies,  he  stops.  We  find  the  fish- 
erman squeezed  into  some  corner  of  the  accident  col- 
umn: "Washed  overboard,"  or  "Lost  in  the  fog," 
and  that  is  the  whole  of  it.  He  ends  just  there. 
There  is  no  more  Jack.  No  fellow-members  in  the 
Society  for  Something-or-Nothing  pass  resolutions  to 
his  credit  and  the  consolation  of  his  family.  No 
funeral  discourse  is  preached  over  him  and  privately 
printed  at  the  request  of  the  parishioners.  The 
columns  of  the  religious  weekly  to  which  he  did  not 
subscribe  contain  no  obituary  sketches  signed  by  the 
initials  of  friends  not  thought  to  be  too  afflicted  to 
speak  a  good  word  for  a  dead  man.  From  the  press 
of  the  neighboring  city  no  thin  memorial  volume 
sacred  to  his  virtues  and  stone-blind  to  his  defects 


JACK  THE  FISHERMAN.  101 

shall  ever  issue.  Jack  needs  a  biographer.  Such 
the  writer  of  this  sketch  would  fain  aspire  to  be. 

Jack  was  born  at  sea.  His  father  was  bringing 
his  mother  home  from  a  visit  at  a  half-sister's  in 
Nova  Scotia,  for  Jack's  mother  was  one  of  those 
homesick,  clannish  people  who  pine  without  their 
relations  as  much  as  some  of  us  pine  Avith  ours ; 
and  even  a  half-sister  was  worth  more  to  her  in  her 
fanciful  and  feeble  condition  than  a  whole  one  is 
sure  to  be  to  bolder  souls. 

She  had  made  her  visit  at  her  half-sister's,  and 
they  had  talked  over  receipts,  and  compared  yeast, 
and  cut  out  baby-things,  and  turned  dresses,  and 
dyed  flannel,  and  gone  to  prayer-meetings  together ; 
and  Jack's  mother  was  coming  home,  partly  because 
Jack's  father  came  for  her,  and  partly  because  he 
happened  to  come  sober,  which  was  a  great  point, 
and  partly  because  the  schooner  had  to  sail,  which 
was  another,  —  she  was  coming  home,  at  all  events, 
when  a  gale  struck  them.  It  was  an  ugly  blow. 
The  little  two-masted  vessel  swamped,  in  short,  at 
midnight  of  a  moonlit  night,  off  the  coast,  just  the 
other  side  of  seeing  Cape  Ann  light.  The  crew 
were  picked  up  by  a  three-master,  and  taken  home. 
Aboard  the  three-master,  in  fright  and  chill  and 
storm,  the  little  boy  was  born.  They  always  said 
that  he  was  born  in  Fairharbor.  In  fact,  he  was 
born  rounding  Eastern  Point.  "  The  toughest  place 
to  be  borned  in,  this  side  o'  Torment,"  Jack's  father 
said.     But  Jack's  mother  said  nothing  at  all. 

Jack's  father  kept  sober  till  he  got  the  mother 
and  the  child  safely  into  the  little  crumbling,  gray 
cottage  in  half  of  whose  meagre  dimensions  the  fam- 


102  JACK  THE  FISHERMAN. 

ily  kept  iip  the  illusion  -wliich  they  called  home. 
Then,  for  truth  compels  me,  I  must  state  that  Jack's 
father  went  straightway  out  upon  what,  in  even  less 
obscure  circles  than  his,  it  is  customary  to  call  "  a 
tear."  There  seems  to  be  something  in  the  savage, 
incisive  litness  of  this  word  which  has  over-ridden 
all  mere  distinctions  of  class  or  culture,  and  must 
ultimately  make  it  a  classic  in  the  language.  "  I  've 
stood  it  long  as  I  ken  stand,  and  I  'm  goin'  on  a  tear, 
—  I  'm  a-goin'  on  a  netarnal  tear,"  said  Jack's  father 
to  his  oldest  dory-mate,  a  fellow  he  had  a  feeling  for, 
much  as  you  w^ould  for  an  oar  you  had  handled  a 
good  many  years ;  or  perhaps  a  sail  that  you  were 
used  to,  and  had  patched  and  watched,  and  knew  the 
cracks  in  it,  and  the  color  of  it,  and  when  it  was 
likely  to  give  w^ay,  and  whereabouts  it  would  hold. 

In  fact,  that  proved  to  be,  in  deed  and  truth,  an 
eternal  tear  for  Jack's  father.  Drunk  as  a  fisher- 
man could  be,  —  and  that  is  saying  a  good  deal,  — 
he  reshipped  that  night,  knowing  not  whither  nor 
w^hy,  nor  indeed  knowing  that  the  deed  was  done  ; 
and  when  he  came  to  himself  he  was  twelve  hours 
out,  on  his  way  to  the  Banks  of  Kewfoundland ;  and 
the  young  mother,  with  her  baby  on  her  arm, 
looked  out  of  the  frosty  window  over  the  foot  of  her 
old  bedstead,  and  watched  for  him  to  come,  and  did 
not  like  to  tell  the  neighbors  that  she  was  short  of 
fuel. 

She  was  used  to  waiting  —  women  are  ;  Fairhar- 
bor  women  always  are.  But  she  had  never  waited 
so  long  before.  And  when,  at  the  end  of  her  wait- 
ing, the  old  dory-mate  came  in  one  night  and  told 
her  that  it  happened  falling  from  the  mast  because 


JACK  THE  FISHERMAN.  103 

he  was  not  sober  enough  to  be  up  there,  Jack's 
mother  said  she  had  always  expected  it.  But  she 
had  not  expected  it,  all  the  same.  We  never  expect 
trouble,  we  only  fear  it.  And  she  had  put  the  baby 
on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  got  upon  her  knees  upon 
the  floor,  and  laid  her  face  on  the  baby,  and  tried  to 
say  her  prayers,  —  for  she  was  a  pious  little  woman, 
not  knowing  any  better,  —  but  found  she  could  not 
pray,  she  cried  so.  And  the  old  dory-mate  told  her 
not  to  try,  but  to  cry  as  hard  as  she  could.  And  she 
told  him  he  was  very  kind ;  and  so  she  did.  For 
she  was  fond  of  her  husband  although  he  got  drunk, 
— because  he  got  drunk,  one  is  tempted  to  say.  Her 
heart  had  gone  the  way  of  the  hearts  of  drunkards' 
wives :  she  loved  in  proportion  to  her  misery,  and 
gave  on  equation  with  what  she  lost.  All  the  woman 
in  her  mothered  her  husband  when  she  could  no 
longer  wifely  worship  him.  When  he  died  she  felt 
as  if  she  had  lost  her  eldest  child.  So,  as  I  say,  she 
kneeled  with  her  face  on  the  baby,  and  cried  as  if 
she  had  been  the  blessedest  of  wives.  Afterward 
she  thought  of  this  with  self-reproach.  She  said 
one  day  to  the  old  dory -mate  :  — 

"  When  my  trouble  came,  I  did  not  pray  to  God. 
I  'd  ought  to  have.     But  I  only  cried  at  Him." 

Jack  had  come  into  the  world  in  a  storm,  and  he 
began  it  stormily.  He  was  a  big,  roaring  baby,  and 
he  became  a  restless  boy.  His  mother's  gentle  and 
unmodified  femininity  was  helpless  before  the  prob- 
lem of  this  wholly  masculine  little  being.  She  said 
Jack  needed  a  man  to  manage  him.  He  smoked  at 
six  ;  he  lived  in  the  stables  and  on  the  wharves  at 
eight ;  he  came  when  he  got  ready,  and  went  when 


104  JACK  THE  FISHERMAN. 

he  pleased ;  he  obeyed  -when  he  felt  -like  it,  and 
when  he  was  punished,  he  kicked.  Once,  in  an  im- 
aginative moment,  he  bit  her. 

She  sent  him  to  pack  mackerel,  for  they  were  put 
to  it  to  keep  soul  and  body  together,  and  he  brought 
home  such  habits  of  speech  as  even  the  Fairharbor 
woman  had  never  heard.  From  her  little  boy,  her 
baby,  —  not  yet  old  enough  to  be  out  of  short  trou- 
sers, and  scarcely  out  of  little  sacks,  had  he  been 
yours,  my  Lady,  at  the  pretty  age  when  one  still 
fastens  lace  collars  round  their  necks,  and  has  them 
under  shelter  by  dark,  and  hears  their  prayers,  and 
challenges  the  breath  of  heaven  lest  it  blow  too 
rudely  on  some  delicate  forming  fibre  of  soul  or 
body, —  from  her  little  boy,  at  eight  years  old,  the 
mother  first  learned  the  abysses  of  vulgarity  in  a 
seaport  town. 

It  must  be  admitted  that  her  education  in  this 
respect  had  been  defective.  She  had  always  been 
one  of  the  women  in  whose  presence  her  neigLbors 
did  not  speak  too  carelessly. 

But  Jack's  mother  had  the  kind  of  eyes  which  do 
not  see  mire,  —  the  meek,  religious,  deep-blue  eye 
which  even  growing  sons  respect  while  they  strike 
the  tears  from  it.  At  his  worst  Jack  regarded  her 
as  a  species  of  sacred  fact,  much  like  heaven  or  a 
hymn.  Sometimes  on  Sunday  nights  he  stayed  at 
home  with  her  ;  he  liked  to  hear  her  sing.  She  sang 
"  Eock  of  Ages  "  in  her  best  black  alpaca,  with  her 
work-worn  hands  crossed  upon  the  gingham  apron 
which  she  put  on  to  save  the  dress. 

But  ah,  she  said.  Jack  needed  a  man  to  manage 
him.     And  one  day  when  she  said  this,  in  spite  of 


JACK  THE  FISHERMAN.  105 

her  gentle  unconsciousness,  or  because  of  it,  the  old 
dory-mate  to  whom  she  said  it  said  he  thought  so 
too,  and  that  if  she  had  no  objections  he  would  like 
to  be  that  man. 

And  the  Fairharbor  widow,  who  had  never  thought 
of  such  a  thing,  said  she  did  n't  know  as  she  had ; 
for  nobody  knew,  she  said,  how  near  to  starving 
they  had  come  ;  and  it  Avas  something  to  have  a 
sober  man.  So,  on  this  reasonable  basis.  Jack  ac- 
quired a  step-father,  and  his  step-father  sent  him 
straightway  to  the  Grand  Banks. 

He  meant  it  well  enough,  and  perhaps  it  made  no 
difference  in  the  end.  But  Jack  was  a  little  fellow 
to  go  fishing,  —  only  ten.  His  first  voyage  was  hard  : 
it  was  a  March  voyage  ;  he  got  badly  frostbitten,  and 
the  skipper  was  rough.  He  was  knocked  about  a 
good  deal,  and  had  the  measles  by  himself  in  his 
berth ;  and  the  men  said  they  did  n't  know  they  had 
brought  a  baby  to  the  Banks,  for  they  were  very 
busy ;  and  Jack  lay  and  cried  a  little,  and  thought 
about  his  mother,  and  wished  he  had  n't  kicked  her, 
but  forgot  it  when  he  got  well.  So  he  swaggered 
about  among  the  men,  as  a  boy  does  when  he  is  the 
only  one  in  a  crew,  and  aped  their  talk,  and  shared 
their  grog,  and  did  their  hard  work,  and  learned  their 
songs,  and  came  home  with  the  early  stages  of  moral 
ossification  as  well  set  in  upon  his  little  heart  as 
a  ten-year-old  heart  allows. 

The  next  voyage  did  not  mend  the  matter  ;  nor 
the  next.  And  though  the  old  dory-mate  was  an 
honest  fellow,  he  had  been  more  successful  as  a  dory- 
mate  than  he  was  as  a  step-father.  He  and  Jack  did 
not  "  get  on."     Sometimes  Jack's  mother  wondered 


106  JACK  THE  FISHERMAN. 

if  he  had  needed  a  man  to  manage  him  ;  but  she 
never  said  so.  Slie  was  a  good  wife,  and  she  had 
fuel  enough,  now ;  she  only  kissed  Jack  and  said  she 
meant  it  for  the  best,  and  then  she  went  away  and 
sang  "  Rock  of  Ages  "  to  the  tune  of  Martyn,  very 
slowly  and  quite  on  the  wrong  key.  It  seemed  to 
make  her  feel  better,  poor  thing.  Jack  sometimes 
wondered  why. 

When  he  was  twelve  years  old  he  came  home  from 
a  winter  voyage  one  night,  and  got  his  pay  for  his 
share,  —  boy's  pay,  yet,  for  a  boy's  share  ;  but  big- 
ger than  it  used  to  be,  —  and  did  not  go  home  first, 
but  went  rollicking  off  with  a  crowd  of  Portuguese. 
It  was  a  Sunday  night,  and  his  mother  was  expecting 
him,  for  she  knew  the  boat  Avas  in.  His  step-father 
expected  him  too,  —  and  his  money ;  and  Jack  knew 
that.  His  mother  had  been  sick,  but  Jack  did  not 
know  that ;  she  had  been  very  sick,  and  had  asked 
for  him  a  great  deal.  There  had  been  a  baby,  —  born 
dead  while  its  father  was  off-shore  after  cod,  —  and 
it  had  been  very  cold  weather ;  and  something  had 
gone  wrong. 

At  midnight  of  that  night  some  one  knocked  at 
the  door  of  the  crumbling  cottage.  The  step-father 
opened  it ;  he  looked  pale  and  agitated.  Some  boys 
were  there  in  a  confused  group;  they  bore  what 
seemed  to  be  a  lifeless  body  on  a  drag,  or  bob-sled ; 
it  was  Jack,  dead  drunk. 

It  was  the  first  time,  —  he  was  only  twelve,  — 
and  one  of  the  Fairharbor  boys  took  the  pipe  from 
his  mouth  to  explain. 

"  He  was  trapped  by  an  /-talian,  and  they  've  stole 
every  cent  off  him,  'n'  kicked  him  out,  'n'  lef  him, 


JACK  THE  FISHERMAN.  107 

stranded  like  a  monk-fish,  so  me  and  the  other  fel- 
lers we  borryed  a  sled  and  brung  him  home,  for  we 
thought  his  mother  'd  rather.  He  ain't  dead,  but 
he 's  just  as  drunk  as  if  he  was  sixty  ! " 

The  Fairharbor  boy  mentioned  this  circumstance 
with  a  kind  of  abnormal  pride,  as  if  such  superior 
maturity  were  a  point  for  a  comrade  to  make  note  of. 
But  Jack's  step-father  went  out  softly,  and  shut  the 
door,  and  said  :  — 

"  Look  here,  boys,  —  help  me  in  with  him,  will 
you  ?  Not  that  way.  His  mother  's  in  there.  She 
died  an  hour  ago." 

II. 

And  so  the  curse  of  his  heredity  came  upon  him. 
She  never  knew,  thank  Heaven.  Her  knowledge 
would  have  been  a  kind  of  terrible  fore-omniscience, 
if  she  had.  She  would  have  had  no  hope  for  him 
from  that  hour.  Her  experience  would  have  left  her 
no  illusions.  The  drunkard's  Avife  would  have  edu- 
cated the  drunkard's  mother  too  ''  liberally  "  for  that. 
She  would  have  taken  in  the  whole  scope  and  detail 
of  the  future  in  one  midnight  moment's  breadth,  as 
a  problem  in  the  higher  mathematics  may  rest  upon 
the  width  of  a  geometrical  point.  But  she  did  not 
know.  We  say  —  I  mean,  it  is  our  fashion  of  say- 
ing —  that  she  did  not  know,  God  was  merciful. 
She  had  asked  for  Jack,  it  seemed,  over  and  over, 
but  did  not  complain  of  him  for  not  coming  ;  she 
never  complained  of  Jack.  She  said  the  poor  boy 
must  have  stayed  somewhere  to  have  a  pleasant 
time ;  and  she  said  they  were  to  give  her  love  to  him, 


108  JACK  THE  FISHERMAN. 

if  he  came  in  while  she  was  asleep.  And  then  she 
asked  her  husband  to  sing  "  Rock  of  Ages  "  for  her, 
because  she  did  not  feel  very  strong.  He  could  n't 
sing,  —  more  than  a  halibut,  poor  fellow  ;  but  he  did 
not  like  to  disappoint  her,  for  he  thought  she  looked 
what  he  called  "  miser'ble  ;  "  so  he  sat  down  by  the 
bed,  and  raised  his  hoarse,  weather-beaten  voice  to 
the  tune  of  Martyn,  as  best  he  could,  and  mixed  up 
two  verses  inextricably  with  a  line  from  "  Billy 's  on 
the  bright  blue  sea,"  which  he  added  because  he  saw 
he  must  have  something  to  fill  out,  and  it  was  all  he 
could  think  of,  —  but  she  thanked  him  very  gently, 
and  said  he  sang  quite  well ;  and  said  once  more  that 
he  was  to  give  her  love  to  Jack ;  and  went  to  sleep 
afterward ;  and  by  and  by,  they  could  not  wake  her 
to  see  her  boy  of  twelve  brought  to  her  drunk. 

The  curse  of  his  heredity  was  upon  him.  We  may 
blame,  we  may  loathe,  we  may  wonder,  we  may  de- 
spair ;  but  we  must  not  forget.  There  were  enough 
to  blame  without  remembering.  Jack,  like  all  drunk- 
ards, soon  learned  this.  In  fact,  he  did  not  remember 
it  very  well  himself,  —  not  having  been  acquainted 
with  his  father ;  and  never  sentimentalized  over  him- 
self nor  whined  for  his  bad  luck,  but  owned  up  to 
his  sins,  with  the  bluntness  of  an  honest,  bad  fellow. 
He  was  rather  an  honest  fellow,  in  spite  of  it  all. 
He  never  lied  when  he  was  sober. 

If  the  curse  of  his  ancestry  had  come  upon  him, 
its  compensatory  temperament  came  too.  Jack  had 
the  merry  heart  of  the  easy  drinker. 

Born  with  his  father's  alcoholized  brain-cells,  poor 
baby,  endowed  with  the  narcotined  conscience  which 
this  species  of  parentage  bequeathes,  he  fell  heir  to 


JACK  THE  FISHERMAN.  109 

the  kind  of  attractiveness  that  goes  with  the  leg- 
acy. 

He  was  a  happy-go-lucky  fellow.  Life  sat  airily 
on  him.  He  had  his  mother's  handsome  eyes  dashed 
with  his  father's  fun  (for  she  could  n't  take  a  joke,  to 
save  her)  ;  he  told  a  good  story ;  he  did  a  kind  deed ; 
he  was  generous  with  his  money,  when  he  had  any, 
and  never  in  the  least  disturbed  when  he  had  n't. 
He  was  popular  to  the  dangerous  extent  that  makes 
one's  vices  seem  a  kind  of  social  introduction,  and 
not  in  Jack's  circle  alone,  be  it  said.  Every  crew 
wanted  him.  Drunk  or  sober,  as  a  shipmate  he  was 
at  par.  It  was  usually  easy  for  him  to  borrow.  The 
fellows  made  up  his  fines  for  him  ;  there  was  always 
somebody  to  go  bail  for  him  when  he  got  before  the 
police-court.  Arrested  perhaps  a  half  dozen  times  a 
year,  in  his  maddest  years,  he  never  was  sent  to  the 
House  in  his  life.  There  were  always  people  enough 
who  thought  it  a  pity  to  let  such  a  good  fellow  go  to 
prison.  He  had  —  I  was  going  to  say  as  a  matter 
of  course  he  had  —  curly  hair.  One  should  not  omit 
to  notice  that  he  was  splendidly  tattooed.  He  was 
proud,  as  seamen  are,  of  his  brawny  arms,  dashed 
from  wrist  to  shoulder  with  the  decorative  ingenuity 
of  his  class.  Jack  had  aesthetic  views  of  his  own, 
indeed,  about  his  personal  allowance  of  indigo.  He 
had  objected  to  the  customary  medley  of  anchors, 
stars,  and  crescents,  and  exhibited  a  certain  reserve 
of  taste,  which  was  rather  interesting.  On  his  left 
arm  he  bore  a  very  crooked  lighthouse  rising  from  a 
heavy  sea ;  he  was,  in  fact,  quite  flooded  along  the 
bicipital  muscle  with  waves  and  billows,  but  nothing 
else  interfered  with  the  massive  proportions  of  the 


110  JACK  THE  FISHERMAN. 

effect.  This  was  considered  a  masterly  design,  and 
Jack  was  often  called  upon  to  push  up  his  sleeve  and 
explain  how  he  came  by  the  inspiration. 

Upon  the  other  arm  he  wore  a  crucifix,  ten  inches 
long ;  this  was  touched  Avith  blood-red  ink ;  the  dead 
Christ  hung  upon  it,  lean  and  pitiful.  Jack  said  he 
took  the  crucifix  against  his  drowning.  It  was  an 
uncommonly  large  and  ornate  crucifix. 

Jack  was  a  steady  drinker  at  nineteen.  At  twenty- 
five  he  was  what  either  an  inexperienced  or  a  deeply 
experienced  temperance  missionary  would  have  called 
incurable.  The  intermediate  grades  would  have  con- 
fidently expected  to  save  him. 

Of  course  he  reformed.  He  would  not  have  been 
interesting  if  he  had  not.  The  unmitigated  sot  has 
few  attractions  even  for  seafaring  society.  It  is  the 
foil  and  flash,  the  by-play  and  side-light  of  character, 
that  "lead  us  on."  Jack  was  always  reforming. 
After  that  night  when  he  was  brought  home  on  the 
bob-sled,  the  little  boy  was  as  steady  and  as  miser- 
able as  he  knew  how  to  be  for  a  long  time ;  he  drew 
the  unfortunate  inference  that  the  one  involved  the 
other.  By  the  time  his  mother's  grave  was  green 
with  the  scanty  Fairharbor  church-yard  grass,  —  for 
even  the  sea-wind  seems  to  have  a  grudge  against 
the  very  dead  for  choosing  dry  graves  in  Fairharbor, 
and  scants  them  in  their  natural  covering,  — by  that 
time  rank  weeds  had  overgrown  the  sorrow  of  the 
homeless  boy.  He  and  his  step-father  "  got  on  "  less 
than  ever  now,  as  was  to  be  expected ;  and  when  one 
day  Jack  announced  with  characteristic  candor  that 
he  was  going  to  get  drunk  if  he  went  to  Torinent 
for  it,  the  two  parted  company ;  and  the  crumbling 


JACK  THE  FISHERMAN.  Ill 

cottage  knew  Jack  no  more.  By  and  by,  when  his 
step-father  was  drowned  at  Georges',  Jack  borrowed 
the  money  for  some  black  gloves  and  a  hat-band. 
He  had  the  reputation  of  being  a  polite  fellow  ;  the 
fishermen  spelled  it  t-o-n-y.  Truth  to  tell,  the  old 
dory-mate  had  wondered  sometimes  on  Sunday  after- 
noons if  he  had  been  the  man  to  manage  Jack ;  and 
felt  that  the  main  object  of  his  marriage  had  been 
defeated. 

Jack,  as  I  say,  was  always  reforming.  Every  tem- 
perance society  in  the  city  had  a  hand  at  him.  They 
Avere  of  the  old-fashioned,  easy  type  which  took  their 
responsibilities  comfortably.  They  held  him  out  on 
a  pair  of  moral  tongs,  and  tried  to  toast  his  misde- 
meanors out  of  him,  before  a  quick  fire  of  pledges 
and  badges  ;  and  when  he  tumbled  out  of  the  tongs, 
and  asked  the  president  and  treasurer  why  they 
did  n't  bow  to  him  in  the  street  when  he  was  drunk, 
or  why,  if  he  was  good  enough  for  them  in  the  lodge- 
room,  he  was  n't  good  enough  to  shake  hands  with 
before  folks  on  the  post-office  steps,  or  propounded 
any  of  those  ingenious  posers  with  which  his  kind 
are  in  the  habit  of  disturbing  the  benevolent  spirit, 
they  snapped  the  tongs  too,  and  turned  him  over  to 
the  churches. 

These  touched  him  gingerly.  They  invited  him 
into  the  free  pcAVS,  —  a  dismal  little  row  in  the  gal- 
lery, —  sent  him  a  tract  or  two,  and  asked  him  a  f cav 
well-meant  and  very  confusing  religious  questions, 
to  which  Jack's  replies  were  far  from  satisfactory. 
One  ardent  person,  a  recent  convert,  coaxed  him  into 
a  weekly  prayer-meeting.  It  Avas  a  very  good,  honest, 
uninteresting  prayer-meeting,  and  there  Avere  people 


112  JACK  THE  FISHERMAN. 

sitting  there  beside  him  with  clean  lives  and  clear 
faces  whose  motives  Jack  was  not  worthy  to  under- 
stand, and  he  knew  enough  to  know  it.  But  it  hap- 
pened to  be  a  foreign  mission  prayer-meeting,  de- 
voted to  the  Burmese  field ;  which  was,  therefore, 
be  it  said,  not  so  much  an  argument  against  foreign 
missions,  as  a  deficient  means  of  grace  to  the  fisher- 
man. Jack  was  terribly  bored.  He  ran  his  hands 
through  his  curls,  and  felt  for  his  tobacco,  and 
whispered  to  the  young  convert  to  know  if  there 
were  n't  any  waits  in  the  play  so  a  man  could  get 
out  Avithout  hurting  anybody's  feelings.  But  just 
then  the  young  convert  struck  up  a  hymn,  and  Jack 
stayed. 

He  liked  the  singing.  His  restless,  handsome  face 
took  on  a  change  such  as  a  windy  day  takes  on  to- 
ward dusk,  when  the  breeze  dies  down.  When  he 
found  that  they  were  singing  "  Rock  of  Ages,"  he  tried 
to  sing  it  too,  —  for  he  was  a  famous  tenor  on  deck. 
But  when  hQ  had  sung  a  line  or  two,  —  flash  !  dowji 
in  one  of  the  empty  pews  in  front,  he  saw  a  thin  old 
lady  with  blue  eyes,  sitting  in  a  black  alpaca  dress, 
with  her  hands  clasped  on  her  gingham  apron, 

"  That 's  my  mother.  Have  I  got  the  jim-jams  ?  " 
asked  this  unaccustomed  worshiper  of  himself.  But 
then  he  remembered  that  he  was  sober.  He  could 
sing  no  longer  after  this,  but  bowed  his  head  and 
looked  into  his  old  felt  hat,  and  wondered  if  he  were 
going  to  cry,  or  get  religion.  In  point  of  fact,  he  did 
neither  of  these  things,  because  a  very  old  church- 
member  arose  just  then,  and  said  he  saw  a  poor  cast- 
away in  our  midst  to-night,  and  he  besought  the 
prayers  of  the  meeting  for  his  soul.     Jack  stopped 


JACK  THE  FISHERMAN.  113 

crying.  He  looked  hard  at  the  old  church  member. 
He  knew  him  ;  had  always  known  him.  The  fisher- 
man waited  till  that  prayer  was  through,  —  it  was 
rather  a  long  prayer,  —  and  then  he  too  sprang  to 
his  feet.  He  looked  all  around  the  decorous  place  ; 
his  face  was  white  with  the  swift  passion  of  the 
drinking  man. 

"  I  never  spoke  in  meetin'  in  my  life,"  said  Jack 
in  an  unsteady  voice.  *'  I  ain't  religious.  I  drink. 
But  I  'm  sober  to-night,  and  I  've  got  something  to 
say  to  you.  I  heard  what  that  man  said.  I  know 
him.  He 's  old  Jim  Crownoby.  I  've  always  knowed 
Jim  Crownoby.  He  owns  a  sight  of  property  in  this 
town.  He  's  a  rich  man.  He  owns  that  block  on 
Black  Street.  You  know  he  does.  You  can't  deny 
it.  Nor  he  can't  neither.  All  I  want  to  say  is,  I  Ve 
got  drunk  in  one  of  them  places  of  his  time  and 
again;  and  if  there  ain't  anybody  but  him  to  pray 
for  my  soul,  I  'd  rather  go  to  the  devil." 

Jack  stopped  short,  jammed  on  his  hat,  and  left 
the  meeting.  In  the  shocked  rustle  that  followed, 
some  one  had  the  tact  to  start  "  Eescue  the  perish- 
ing," as  the  fisherman  strode  down  the  broad  aisle. 
He  did  not  go  again.  The  poor  young  convert  fol- 
lowed him  up  for  a  week  or  two,  and  gave  him  an 
expensive  Testament,  bought  out  of  an  almost  in- 
visible personal  income,  in  vain. 

"  I  've  no  objections  to  you,"  said  Jack  candidly  ; 
"  I  'm  much  obliged  to  ye  for  yer  politeness,  sir.  But 
them  churches  that  sub-leases  to  a  rumseller,  I  don't 
think  they  onderstand  a  drinkin'  man.  Hey  ?  Well, 
ain't  he  their  biggest  rooster,  now  ?  Don't  he  do  the 
heft  of  the  payin',  and  the  tallest  of  their  crowin', 


114  JACK  THE  FISHERMAN. 

consequent  ?     Tliought  so.     Better  leave  me  go,  sir. 
I  ain't  a  pious  man ;  I  'm  a  fisherman." 

"  Fishes,"  said  Jack,  "  is  no  fools." 

He  gave  voice  to  this  remark  one  day  in  Boston, 
when  he  was  twenty -five  years  old.     He  was  trying 
to  entertain  a  Boston  girl ;  she  was  not  familiar  with 
Fairharbor  or  with  the  scenery  of  his  calling  ;  he 
wanted  to  interest  her  ;  he  liked  the  girl.     He  had 
liked  a  good  many  girls,  it  need  not  be  said ;  but 
this  one  had  laid  upon  the  fisherman  —  she  knew  not 
how,  he  knew  not  Avhy,  and  what  man  or  woman  of 
us  could  have  told  him  ?  —  the  power  that  comes  not 
of  reason,  or  of  time,  or  of  trying,  or  of  wisdom,  or 
of  fitness,  but  of  the  mystery  to  which,  when  we 
are  not  speaking  of  Jack,  we  give  the  name  of  love. 
It  seems  a  sacrilege,  admit,  to  write  it  here,  and  of 
these  two.     But  tl^ere,  again,  it  would  be  easy  to  be 
wrong.     The  study  of  the  relativity  of  human  feel- 
ing is  a  delicate  science ;  it  calls  for  a  tine  moral 
equipment.     If  this  were  the  high-water  mark  of 
nature  for  Jack  —  and  who  shall  say  ?  —  the  tide 
shall  have  its  sacred  due,  even  down  among  those 
weeds  and  in  that  mud.     He  liked  that  girl,  among 
them  all,  and  her  he  thought  of  gently.     He  had 
known  her  a  long  time  ;  as  much  as  three  months. 
When  the  vessel  came  into  Boston  to  sell  halibut,  he 
had  a  fcAv  days  there,  drifting  about  as  seamen  do, 
homeless  and  reckless  ;  dashing  out  the  wages  just 
paid  off,  in  ways  that  sometimes  he  remembered  and 
sometimes  he  forgot,  and  that  usually  left  him  with- 
out a  dollar  toward  his  next  fine  when  he  should  be 
welcomed  by  the  police  court  of  his  native  city  on 
retuminsj  home. 


JACK  THE  FISHERMAN.  115 

Jack  thought,  I  say,  gravely  of  this  girl.  He 
never  once  took  her  name  in  vain  among  the  fellows ; 
and  she  had  not  been  a  very  good  girl,  either.  But 
Jack  reflected  that  he  was  not  very  good  himself, 
if  you  came  to  that.  His  downright,  honest  nature 
stood  him  in  stead  in  this  moral  distinction ;  there 
was  always  a  broad  streak  of  generosity  in  him  at 
his  worst ;  it  goes  with  the  temperament,  we  say, 
and  perhaps  we  say  it  too  often  to  give  him  half  the 
credit  of  it. 

She  was  a  pretty  girl,  and  she  was  very  young. 
She  had  told  Jack  her  story,  as  they  strolled  about 
the  bright  Boston  streets  on  comfortable  winter 
evenings  ;  when  he  took  her  to  the  variety  show,  or 
to  the  oyster-shop,  and  they  talked  together.  Jack 
pitied  her.  Perhaps  she  deserved  it ;  it  was  a  sad 
little  story  —  and  she  Avas  so  very  young  !  She  had 
a  gentle  way  with  Jack;  for  some  reason,  God 
knows  why,  she  had  trusted  him  from  the  first,  and 
he  had  never  once  been  known  to  disturb  her  trust. 
That  was  the  pleasant  part  of  it. 

On  this  evening  that  we  speak  of.  Jack  was  sober. 
He  was  often  sober  when  he  had  an  evening  to  spend 
with  the  Boston  girl ;  not  always  —  no  ;  truth  must 
be  told.  She  looked  as  pretty  as  was  in  her,  that 
night ;  she  had  black  eyes  and  a  kind  of  yellow  hair 
that  Jack  had  never  seen  crinkled  low  on  the  fore- 
head above  black  eyes  before ;  he  thought  her  as 
fine  to  look  at  as  any  actress  he  ever  saw ;  for  the 
stage  was  Jack's  standard  of  the  magnificent,  as  it  is 
to  so  many  of  his  sort.  The  girl's  name  was  Teen. 
Probably  she  had  been  called  Christine  once,  in  her 
country  home ;  she  even  told  Jack  that  she  had  been 
baptized. 


116  JACK  THE  FISHERMAN. 

"  I  was  n't,  myself,"  said  Jack  ;  "  I  roared  so,  they 
darsen't  do  it.  My  mother  got  me  to  church,  for 
she  Avas  a  pious  woman,  and  I  pummeled  the  parson 
in  the  face  with  both  fists,  and  she  said  she  come 
aAvay,  for  she  was  ashamed  of  me.  She  always  said 
that  christenin'  was  n't  never  legal.  It  disappointed 
her,  too.     I  was  an  awful  baby." 

"  I  should  think  likely,"  said  Teen  with  candor. 
"  Do  you  set  much  by  your  mother  ?  " 

"She's  dead,"  said  Jack  in  a  subdued  voice. 
Teen  looked  at  him  ;  she  had  never  heard  him  speak 
like  that. 

"  I  'most  wished  mine  was,"  said  the  girl ;  "  she  'd 
'a'  ben  better  off  —  along  of  me." 

"  That 's  so,"  said  Jack. 

The  two  took  a  turn  in  silence  up  and  down  the 
brightly  lighted  street;  their  thoughts  looked  out 
strangely  from  their  marred  young  faces  ;  they  ielt 
as  if  they  were  in  a  foreign  country.  Jack  had 
meant  to  ask  her  to  take  a  drink,  but  he  gave  it  up  ; 
he  could  n't,  somehow. 

"  Was  you  always  a  fisherman  ? "  asked  Teen, 
feeling,  with  a  woman's  tact,  that  somebody  must 
change  the  current  of  the  subject. 

"  I  was  a  fisherman  three  generations  back,"  Jack 
answered  her;  "borned  a  fisherman,  you  bet!  I 
could  n't  'a'  ben  nothin'  else  if  I  'd  drownded  for  it. 
It 's  a  smart  business.  You  hev  to  keep  your  wits 
about  you.     Fishes  is  no  fools." 

"  Ain't  they  ?  "  asked  the  girl  listlessly.  She  was 
conscious  of  failing  in  conversational  brilliancy ; 
but  the  truth  was,  she  could  n't  get  over  what  they 
had  been  saying :  it  was  always  unfortunate  when 


JACK  THE  FISHERMAN.  117 

she  remembered  her  mother.  Jack  began  to  talk  to 
her  about  his  business  again,  but  Teen  did  not  re- 
ply ;  and  when  he  looked  down  at  her  to  see  what 
ailed  her,  there  were  real  tears  rolling  over  her 
pretty  cheeks, 

"  Why,  Teen !  "  said  Jack. 

"  Leave  go  of  me,  Jack !  "  said  Teen,  "  and  let  me 
get  off ;  I  ain't  good  company  to-night.  I  've  got 
the  dumps.  I  can't  entertain  ye.  Jack.  And,  Jack 
—  don't  let 's  talk  about  mothers  next  time,  will  we  ? 
It  spoils  the  evenin'.  Leave  go  of  me,  and  I  '11  go 
home  by  my  own  self.     I  'd  rather." 

"  I  won't  leave  go  of  you  !  "  cried  Jack,  with  a 
sudden  blazing  purpose  lighting  up  all  the  corners 
of  his  soul.  It  was  a  white  light,  not  unholy ;  it 
seemed  to  shine  through  and  through  him  with  a 
soft  glow  like  a  candle  on  an  altar.  "  I  '11  never 
leave  go  of  you,  Teen,  if  you  '11  say  so.  I  'd  rather 
marry  you." 

"  Marry  vie  ?  "  said  Teen. 

"  Yes,  marry  you.  I  'd  a  sight  rather.  There, 
now  !  It 's  out  with  it.  What  do  you  say  to  that, 
Teen  ?  " 

With  one  slow  finger-tip  Teen  wiped  away  the 
tears  that  fell  for  her  mother.  A  ring  on  her  finger 
glistened  in  the  light  as  she  did  this.  She  saw  the 
sparkle,  tore  off  the  ring  and  dashed  it  away  ;  it  fell 
into  the  mud,  and  was  trodden  out  of  sight  instantly. 
Jack  sprang  gallantly  to  pick  it  up. 

"  Don't  you  touch  it !  "  cried  the  girl.  She  put  her 
bared  hand  back  upon  his  arm.  The  ring  had  left  a 
little  mark  upon  her  finger ;  she  glanced  at  this,  and 
looked  up  into  Jack's  handsome  face ;  he  looked 
very  kind. 


118  JACK  THE  FISIIEBMAN. 

"  Jack,  dear,"  said  Teen  softly,  "  I  ain't  lit  to 
marry  ye." 

"  You  're  fitter  'n  I  be,"  answered  Jack  manfully. 

Teen  sighed ;  she  did  not  speak  at  once ;  other 
tears  came  now,  but  these  were  tears  for  herself 
and  for  Jack.  Jack  felt  this,  after  his  fashion; 
they  gave  him  singular  confusion  of  mind. 

"I  wouldn't  cry  about  it,  Teen.  You  needn't 
have  me  if  you  don't  want  to." 

"  But  I  do  want  to,  Jack." 

"  Honest  ?  " 

"  Honest  it  is,  Jack." 

"  Will  ye  make  a  good  wife,  Teen  ?  "  asked  Jack, 
after  some  unprecedented  thought. 

"  I  '11  try.  Jack." 

"  You  '11  never  go  back  on  me,  nohow  ?  " 

'*  I  ain't  that  sort ! "  cried  the  girl,  drawing  her- 
self up  a  little.  A  new  dignity  sat  upon  her  with  a 
certain  grace  which  was  beautiful  to  see. 

"  Will  you  swear  it.  Teen  ?  " 

"  If  you  'd  rather.  Jack." 

"  What  '11  you  swear  by,  now  ? "  asked  Jack. 
"  You  must  swear  by  all  you  hold  holy." 

"  What  do  I  hold  holy  ?  "  mused  Teen. 

"  Will  you  swear,"  continued  Jack  seriously,  "will 
you  swear  to  me  by  the  Rock  of  Ages  ?  " 

"  What 's  that  ?  "  asked  the  girl. 

"  It 's  a  hymn-tune.  I  want  you  to  swear  me  by 
the  Eock  of  Ages  that  you  '11  be  that  you  say  you 
will  to  me.     Will  you  do  it,  Teen  ?  " 

''  Oh,  yes,"  said  Teen,  "  I  '11  do  it.  Where  shall 
we  come  across  one  ?  " 

''  I  guess  I  can  find  it,"  Jack  replied.  "  I  can  find 
'most  anything  I  set  out  to." 


JACK  THE  FISHERMAN.  119 

So  they  started  out  at  random,  in  their  reckless 
fashion,  in  the  great  city,  to  find  the  Eock  of  Ages 
for  the  asking. 

Jack  led  his  companion  hither  and  yon,  peering 
into  churches  and  vestries  and  missions,  and  wher- 
ever he  saw  signs  of  sacred  things.  Singing  they 
heard  abundantly  in  the  gay  town ;  songs  merry, 
mad,  and  sad,  but  not  the  song  for  a  girl  to  swear 
by  that  she  would  be  true  wife  to  a  man  who 
trusted  her. 

Wandering  thus,  on  the  strange  errand  whose 
pathos  was  so  far  above  their  own  dream  or  know- 
ledge, they  chanced  at  last  upon  the  place  and  the 
little  group  of  people  known  in  that  part  of  Boston 
as  Mother  Mary's  meeting. 

The  girl  said  she  had  been  there  once,  but  that 
Mother  Mary  was  too  good  for  her ;  she  was  one  of 
the  real  kind.  Everybody  knew  Mother  Mary  and 
her  husband ;  he  was  a  parson.  They  were  poor 
folks  themselves.  Teen  said,  and  understood  poor 
folks,  and  did  for  them  all  the  3^ear  round,  not  clear- 
ing out,  like  rich  ones,  when  it  came  hot  weather, 
bvit  stood  by  'em,  Teen  said.  They  kept  the  little 
room  open,  and  if  you  wanted  a  prayer  you  went  in 
and  got  it,  just  as  you  'd  call  for  a  drink  or  a  sup- 
per ;  it  was  always  on  hand  for  you,  and  a  kind  word 
sure  to  come  with  it,  and  you  always  knew  where  to 
go  for  'em ;  and  Mother  Mary  treated  you  like  folks. 
She  liked  her.  Teen  said.  If  she  'd  been  a  different 
girl,  she  'd  have  gone  there  of  a  cold  night  all  winter. 
But  Teen  said  she  felt  ashamed. 

"  I  guess  she  '11  have  what  I  'm  after,"  said  Jack. 
"  She  sounds  like  she  would.     Let 's  go  in  and  see." 


120  JACK  THE  FISHERMAN. 

So  they  -went  into  the  quiet  place  among  the  pray- 
ing people,  and  stood  staring,  for  they  felt  embar- 
rassed. Mother  Mary  looked  very  white  and  peace- 
ful ;  she  was  a  tall,  fair  woman ;  she  wore  a  black 
dress  with  white  about  the  bosom ;  it  was  a  plain, 
old  dress,  much  mended.  Mother  Mary  did  not 
look  rich,  as  Teen  had  said.  The  room  was  filled 
with  poor  creatures  gathered  about  her  like  her  chil- 
dren, while  she  talked  with  them  and  taught  them 
as  she  could.  She  crossed  the  room  immediately 
to  where  the  young  man  stood,  with  the  girl  beside 
him. 

"We've  come,"  said  Jack,  "to  find  the  Eock  of 
Ages."  He  drew  Teen's  hand  through  his  arm,  and 
held  it  for  a  moment ;  then,  moved  by  some  fine  in- 
stinct mysterious  to  himself,  he  lifted  and  laid  it  in 
Mother  Mary's  own. 

"  Explain  it  to  her,  ma'am,"  he  said ;  "  tell  her, 
won't  you  ?  I  'm  going  to  marry  her,  if  she  '11  have 
me.  I  want  her  to  swear  by  somethin'  holy  she  '11  be 
a  true  wife  to  me.  She  had  n't  an}- thing  particularly 
holy  herself,  and  the  holiest  thing  I  know  of  is  the 
Eock  of  Ages.  I  've  heard  my  mother  sing  it.  She 's 
dead.  We  've  been  huntin'  Boston  over  to-night 
after  the  Eock  of  Ages." 

Mother  Mary  was  used  to  the  pathos  of  her  sober 
work,  but  the  tears  sprang  now  to  her  large  and  gen- 
tle eyes.  She  did  not  speak  to  Jack,  —  could  not 
possibly,  just  then ;  but,  delaying  only  for  the  mo- 
ment till  she  could  command  herself,  she  flung  her 
rich,  maternal  voice  oiit  upon  the  words  of  the  old 
hymn.  Her  husband  joined  her,  and  all  the  people 
present  swelled  the  chorus. 


JACK  THE  FISHERMAN.  121 

"  Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me  ! 
Let  me  hide  myself  in  thee  ; 


Be  of  sin  the  perfect  cure, 

Cleanse  me  from  its  guilt  and  power." 

They  sang  it  all  through,  —  the  three  verses  that 
everybody  knows,  —  and  Jack  and  Teen  stood  listen- 
ing. Jack  tried  to  sing  himself ;  but  Teen  hid  her 
face,  and  cried  upon  his  arm. 

"  Thoic  must  save"  sang  the  praying  people  ; 
"  Thott  must  save,  and  thou  alone  !  " 

The  strain  died  solemnly  ;  the  room  was  quiet ; 
the  minister  yonder  began  to  pray,  and  all  the  peo- 
ple bowed  their  heads.  But  Mother  Mary  stood 
quite  still,  with  the  girl's  hand  trembling  in  her  own. 

"  Swear  it,  Teen ! "  Jack  bent  down  his  curly  head 
and  whispered;  he  would  not  shame  his  promised 
wife  before  these  people.  "  Swear  by  that  you  '11 
be  true  wife  to  me  !  " 

"I  swear  it.  Jack,"  sobbed  Teen.  "If  that's  the 
Kock  of  Ages,  I  swear  by  it,  though  I  was  to  die  for 
it,  I  '11  be  an  honest  wife  to  you." 

"  Come  back  when  you  've  got  your  license,"  said 
Mother  Mary,  smiling  through  her  tears,  "  and  my 
husband  will  marry  you  if  you  want  him  to." 

"  We  '11  come  to-morroW,"  Jack  answered  gravely. 

"Jack,"  said  Teen  in  her  pretty  way, — for  she 
had  a  very  pretty  way,  —  "  if  I  'm  an  honest  wife  to 
you,  will  you  be  kind  to  me  ?  "  She  did  not  ask 
him  to  swear  it  by  the  Kock  of  Ages.  She  took  his 
word  for  it,  poor  thing  !     Women  do. 


122  JACK  TUE  FISHERMAN. 


III. 


Mother  Mary's  husband  married  them  next  day 
at  the  Mission  meeting;  and  Mother  INIary  sat  down 
at  the  melodeon  in  the  corner  of  the  pleasant  place, 
and  played  and  sang  Toplady's  great  hymn  for  them, 
as  Jack  had  asked  her.  It  Avas  his  wedding  march. 
He  was  very  sober  and  gentle,  —  almost  like  a  bet- 
ter man.  Teen  thought  him  the  handsomest  man 
she  had  ever  seen. 

"  Oh,  I  say.  Teen,"  he  nodded  to  her,  as  they 
walked  away,  "  one  thing  I  forgot  to  tell  you,  —  I  'm 
reformed," 

"  Are  you.  Jack  ?  " 

"  If  I  ever  drink  a  drop  again,  so  help  me  "  — 
But  he  stopped. 

"  So  help  you,  Rock  of  Ages  ? "  asked  the  new- 
made  wife.  But  Jack  Avinced;  he  was  honest 
enough  to  hesitate  at  this. 

"  I  don't  know 's  I  'd  darst  —  that,''  he  added  rue- 
fully. "  But  I  'm  reformed.  I  have  lost  all  hanker 
for  liquor.  I  shall  never  drink  again.  You  '11  see, 
Teen." 

Teen  did  see,  as  was  to  be  expected.  She  saw  a 
great  deal,  poor  thing  !  Jack  did  not  drink  —  for  a 
long  time ;  it  was  nearly  five  months,  for  they  kept 
close  count.  He  took  her  to  Fairharbor,  and  rented 
the  old  half  of  the  crumbling  cottage  where  his 
mother  used  to  sit  and  watch  for  him  on  loni^^  late 
evenings.  The  young  wife  did  the  watching  now. 
They  planted  some  cinnamon  rose-bushes  by  the 
doorsteps  of  the  cottage,  and  fostered  them  affection- 


JACK  THE  FISHERMAN.  123 

ately.  Jack  was  as  happy  and  sober  as  possible,  to 
begin  with.  He  picked  the  cinnamon  roses  and 
brought  them  in  for  his  wife  to  wear.  He  was 
proud  to  have  a  home  of  his  own ;  he  had  not  ex- 
pected to ;  in  fact,  he  had  never  had  one  since  that 
night  when  his  mother  said  they  were  to  give  her 
love  to  him,  if  he  came  home  while  she  was  asleep. 
He  had  beaten  about,  sleeping  for  the  most  part  in 
his  berth,  and  sailing  again  directly ;  he  had  never 
had  any  place,  he  said,  to  hang  his  winter  clothes 
in  ;  closets  and  bureaus  seemed  treasure-houses  to 
him,  and  the  kitchen  fire  a  luxury  greater  than  a 
less  good-looking  man  would  have  deserved.  When 
he  came  home,  drenched  and  chilly,  from  a  winter 
voyage,  and  Teen  took  the  covers  off,  and  the  fiery 
heart  of  the  coals  leaped  out  to  greet  him,  and  she 
stood  in  the  rich  color,  with  her  yellow  hair,  young 
and  fair  and  sweet  as  any  man's  wife  could  look, 
and  said  she  had  missed  him,  and  called  him  her 
dear  husband,  Jack  even  went  so  far  as  to  feel  that 
Teen  was  the  luxury.  He  treated  her  accordingly  ; 
that  was  at  first.  He  came  straight  home  to  her ; 
he  kept  her  in  flour  and  fuel;  she  had  the  little 
things  and  the  gentle  words  that  women  need. 
Teen  was  very  fond  of  him.  This  was  the  first  of 
it,  —  I  was  going  to  say  this  was  the  worst  of  it. 
All  there  was  of  Teen  seemed  to  have  gone  into  her 
love  for  Jack.  A  part  of  Jack  had  gone  into  his 
love  for  Teen.  Teen  was  very  happy,  to  begin  with. 
The  respectable  neighbors  came  to  see  her,  and  said, 
"We're  happy  to  make  your  acquaintance."  No- 
body knew  that  it  had  not  always  been  so  that 
Teen's  acquaintance  would  have  been  a  source  of 


124  JACK  THE  FISHERMAN. 

social  happiness.  And  she  wrote  to  her  mother  that 
she  was  married ;  and  her  mother  came  on  to  make 
her  a  little  visit ;  and  Teen  cried  her  soul  out  for 
joy.  She  was  very  modest  and  home-keeping  and 
loving  ;  no  wife  in  the  land  was  truer  than  this  girl 
he  had  chosen  was  to  the  fisherman  who  chose  her. 
Jack  knew  that.  He  believed  in  her.  She  made 
him  happy  ;  and  therefore  she  kept  him  right. 

All  this  was  at  first.  It  did  not  last.  Why 
should  we  expect  that,  when  we  see  how  little  there 
is  in  the  relation  of  man  and  woman  which  lasts  ? 
If  happy  birth  and  gentle  rearing,  and  the  forces  of 
what  we  call  education,  and  the  silken  webs  of  spun 
refinements,  are  so  strained  in  the  tie  which  requires 
two  who  cannot  get  away  from  each  other  to  make 
each  other  happy,  how  should  we  ask,  of  the  law  of 
chances,  the  miracle  for  Teen  and  Jack  ? 

There  was  no  miracle.  No  transubstantiation  of 
the  common  bread  to  holy  flesh  was  wrought  upon 
that  poor  altar.  Their  lot  went  the  way  of  other 
lots,  with  the  facts  of  their  history  dead  against 
them.  Trouble  came,  and  poverty,  and  children, 
and  care,  and  distaste.  Jack  took  to  his  old  ways, 
and  his  wife  to  the  tears  that  they  bring.  The  chil- 
dren died ;  they  were  poor  sickly  babies,  who  wailed 
a  little  while  in  her  arms,  and  slipped  out  because 
there  was  n't  enough  to  them  to  stay.  And  the 
gray  hoiise  was  damp.  Some  said  it  was  diphtheria ; 
but  their  mother  said  it  was  the  will  of  God.  She 
added  :  Might  his  will  be  done  !  On  the  whole  she 
was  not  sorry.  Their  father  struck  her  when  he 
was  in  liquor.  She  thought  if  the  babies  lived  they 
might  get  hurt.     A  month  before  the  last  one  was 


JACK  THE  FISHERMAN.  125 

born  she  showed  to  Jack's  biographer  a  bruise  across 
her  shoulder,  long  and  livid.  She  buttoned  her 
dress  over  it  with  hasty  repentance. 

"  Maybe  I  'd  ought  n't  to  have  told,"  she  said. 
"But  he  said  he'd  be  kind  to  me." 

Jack  was  very  sorry  about  this  when  he  was 
sober.  He  kissed  his  wife,  and  bought  a  pair  of 
pink  kid  shoes  for  the  baby,  which  it  never  grew 
large  enough  to  wear. 

I  am  not  writing  a  temperance  story,  only  the 
biography  of  a  fisherman,  and  a  few  words  will  say 
better  than  many  how  it  was.  Alcoholized  brain- 
cells  being  one  of  the  few  bequests  left  to  society 
which  the  heirs  do  not  dispute,  Jack  went  back  to 
his  habits  with  the  ferocity  that  follows  abstinence. 
Hard  luck  came.  Teen  was  never  much  of  a  house- 
keeper ;  she  had  left  her  mother  too  early ;  had 
never  been  taught.  Things  were  soggy,  and  not  al- 
ways clean ;  and  she  was  so  busy  in  being  struck 
and  scolded,  and  in  bearing  and  burying  babies,  that 
it  grew  comfortless  beside  the  kitchen  fire.  The 
last  of  the  illusions  which  had  taken  the  name  of 
home  within  the  walls  of  the  crumbling  half-cottage 
withered  out  of  it,  just  as  the  cinnamon  roses  did 
the  summer  Jack  watered  them  with  whiskey  by  a 
little  emotional  mistake. 

A  worse  thing  had  happened,  too.  Some  shipmate 
had  "  told  "  in  the  course  of  time ;  and  Teen's  pre- 
matrimonial  story  got  set  adrift  upon  the  current  — 
one  of  the  crudest  currents  of  its  kind  —  of  Fair- 
harbor  gossip.  The  respectable  neighbors  made  her 
feel  it,  as  only  respectable  neighbors  do  such  things. 
Jack,  raging,  overheard  her  name  upon  the  wharves. 


126  JACK  THE  FISHERMAN. 

Teen  had  been  "  that  she  said  she  would  "  to  him. 
He  knew  it.  No  matron  in  the  town  had  kept  her 
life  or  heart  more  true.  In  all  her  sickness  and 
trouble  and  slackness,  and  in  going  cold  or  hungry, 
and  in  her  vivid  beauty  that  none  of  all  these  things 
could  quench,  Teen  had  carried  a  sweet  dignity  of 
her  own  as  the  racer  in  the  old  Promethean  festival 
carried  the  torch  while  he  ran  against  the  wind. 
Jack  knew,  —  oh  yes,  he  knew.  But  he  grew  sul- 
len, suspicious.  When  he  was  drunk  he  was  always 
jealous  ;  it  began  to  take  that  form.  When  he  was 
sober  he  still  admired  his  wife ;  sometimes  he  went 
so  far  as  to  remember  that  he  loved  her.  When  this 
happened.  Teen  dried  her  eyes,  and  brushed  her 
yellow  hair,  and  washed  up  the  kitchen  floor,  and 
made  the  coft'ee,  and  said  to  the  grocer  when  she 
paid  for  the  sugar,  "  My  husband  has  reformed." 

One  night  Jack  came  home  unexpectedly  ;  a 
strange  mood  sat  upon  him,  which  his  wife  did  not 
find  herself  able  to  classify  by  any  of  the  instant  and 
exquisite  perceptions  which  grow,  like  new  faculties, 
in  wives.  He  had  been  drinking  heavily  when  he 
left  her,  and  she  had  not  looked  for  him  for  days  ;  if 
he  sailed  as  he  was,  it  would  be  a  matter  of  weeks. 
Teen  went  straight  to  him ;  she  thought  he  might  be 
hurt ;  she  held  out  her  arms  as  she  would  to  one  of 
her  children ;  but  he  met  her  with  a  gesture  of  in- 
difference, and  she  shrank  back. 

"  She  's  here,"  said  Jack.  "  Mother  Mary 's  in  this 
d town.     I  see  her." 

"  I  wish  she  'd  talk  to  you,"  said  Teen,  saying  pre- 
cisely the  wrong  thing  by  the  fatal  instinct  which  so 
often  possesses  drunkards'  wives. 


JACK  THE  FISHERMAN.  127 

"  You  do,  do  you  ?  "  quoth  Jack.  "  Well,  I  don't. 
I  have  n't  give  her  the  chance."  He  crushed  on  his 
hat  and  stole  out  of  the  house  again. 

But  his  mood  was  on  him  yet ;  the  diiference  being 
that  his  wife  was  out  of  it.  He  sulked  and  skulked 
about  the  streets  alone  for  a  while  ;  he  did  not  go 
back  to  the  boys  just  then,  but  wandered  with  the 
apparent  aimlessness  in  which  the  most  tenacious 
aims  are  hidden.  Mother  Mary  and  her  husband 
were  holding  sailors'  meetings  in  the  roughest  quar- 
ter of  the  town.  There  was  need  enough  of  Mother 
Mary  in  Fairharbor.  A  crowd  had  gathered  to  hear 
the  novelty.  Fairharbor  seamen  were  none  too  used 
to  being  objects  of  consideration ;  it  was  a  matter  of 
mark  that  a  parson  and  a  lady  should  hire  a  room 
from  a  rich  fish-firm,  pay  for  it  out  of  their  own 
scanty  pockets,  and  invite  one  in  from  deck  or  wharf, 
in  one's  oil-clothes  or  jumper,  to  hear  what  a  mess- 
mate of  Jack's  called  a  "high-toned  prayer."  He 
meant  perhaps  to  convey  the  idea  that  the  petition 
treated  the  audience  politely. 

Jack  followed  the  crowd  in  the  dark,  shrinking  in 
its  wake,  for  he  was  now  sober  enough  not  to  feel  like 
himself.  He  waited  till  the  last  of  the  fellows  he 
knew  had  gone  into  the  place,  and  then  crept  up  on 
tiptoe,  and  put  his  face  against  the  window  of  the 
salt-cod  warehouse  where  the  little  congregation  was 
gathered,  and  looked  in.  The  room  was  full  and 
bright.  It  wore  that  same  look  of  peace  and  shelter 
which  he  remembered.  Mother  Mary  stood,  as  she 
had  stood  before,  tall  and  pale  in  her  black  dress, 
with  the  white  covering  on  her  bosom.  Her  husband 
had  been  speaking  to  the  fishermen,  and  she,  as  Jack 


128  JACK  THE  FISHERMAN. 

put  his  gnarled  hand  to  his  excited  ej^es  and  his  eyes 
to  the  window-glass,  turned  her  face  full  about,  to 
start  the  singing.  She  seemed  to  Jack  to  look  at 
him.  Her  look  was  sad.  He  felt  ashamed,  and  cow- 
ered down  below  the  window-sill.  But  he  wanted  to 
hear  her  sing,  —  he  had  never  heard  anybody  sing 
like  Mother  Mary,  —  and  so  he  stayed  there  for  a 
little  while,  curled  against  the  fish-house.  It  began 
to  rain,  and  he  was  pretty  wet ;  but  Jack  was  in  his 
jumper,  and  a  ragged  old  jumper  at  that ;  he  knew 
he  was  not  so  handsome  as  he  used  to  be  ;  he  felt 
that  he  cut  a  poor  figure  even  for  a  drunken  fisher- 
man; all  the  self-respect  that  life  had  left  him 
shrank  from  letting  Mother  Mary  see  him.  Jack 
would  not  go  in.  A  confused  notion  came  to  him, 
as  he  crouched  against  the  warehouse,  in  the  show- 
ers, that  it  was  just  as  well  it  should  rain  on  him  ;  it 
might  wash  him.  He  pushed  up  his  sleeves  and  let 
the  rain  fall  on  his  arms.  He  found  an  old  Cape  Ann 
turkey  box  there  was  lying  about,  turned  it  edgewise 
so  that  one  ragged  knee  might  rest  upon  it,  and  thus 
bring  his  eye  to  a  level  with  the  window-sill,  while 
yet  he  could  not  be  seen  from  within.  So  he 
crouched  listening.  The  glimmer  from  the  prayer- 
room  came  across  the  fisherman's  bared  right  arm, 
and  struck  the  crucifix.  Jack  had  the  unconscious 
attitude  of  one  sinking,  who  had  thrown  up  his  arms 
to  be  saved.  The  Christ  on  the  crucifix  looked 
starved  and  sickly.  Jack  did  not  notice  the  cruci- 
fix. 

At  this  moment  Mother  Mary's  yearning  voice  rang 
out  above  the  hoarse  chorus  of  the  fishermen,  whose 
weather-ragged  and  reverent  faces  lifted  themselves 


JACK  THE  FISHERMAN.  129 

mistily  before  her,  as  if  they  had  been  the  counte- 
nance of  one  helpless  man  :  — 

"  Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me !  " 

"  Oh,  my  God !  "  cried  Jack. 


IV. 

It  was  the  next  day  that  some  one  told  Mother 
Mary,  at  the  poor  boarding-house  where  she  stayed, 
that  a  woman  wanted  a  few  words  with  her.  The 
visitor  was  Teen.  She  was  worn  and  wan  and  sob- 
bing with  excitement.  Her  baby  was  soon  to  be 
born.  She  did  not  look  as  if  she  had  enough  to  eat. 
She  had  come,  she  said,  just  to  see  Mother  Mary,  just 
to  tell  her,  for  Jack  never  would  tell  himself,  but  she 
was  sure  her  husband  had  reformed ;  he  would  never 
drink  again ;  he  meant  to  be  a  sober  man ;  and 
Mother  Mary  ought  to  know  she  did  it,  for  she  did, 
God  bless  her ! 

"  I  've  walked  all  this  way  to  bless  you  for  myself," 
said  Teen.  "  I  ain't  very  fit  for  walkin',  nor  I  can't 
afford  a  ferry -ticket,  for  he  did  n't  leave  me  nothin' 
on  this  trip,  but  I  've  come  to  bless  you.  My  hus- 
band come  to  your  meetin'.  Mother  Mary,  by  himself, 
Jack  did.  He  never  goes  to  no  meetin's,  —  nobody 
could  n't  drove  him  ;  but  he  come  to  yours  because 
he  says  you  treat  a  man  like  folks,  and  he  would  n't 
go  inside,  for  he  'd  ben  drinkin'  and  he  felt  ashamed. 
So  he  set  outside,  up  on  a  box  behind  the  winder  and 
he  peeked  in.  And  he  said  it  rained  on  him  while 
he  set  peekin',  for  he  wanted  to  get  a  look  at  you. 
And  he  come  home  and  told  me,  for  we  'd  had  some 


130  JACK  TEE  FISHERMAN. 

■words  beforehand,  and  I  was  glad  to  see  liim.  I  was 
settin'  there  and  cryin'  when  he  come.  '  I  would  n't, 
Teen,'  says  he,  '  for  I  've  seen  Mother  Mary,  and 
I  'm  reformed,'  says  he.  So  he  told  me  how  he  set 
up  on  the  box  and  peeked.  He  says  you  looked 
straight  at  him.  He  says  you  stood  up  very  tall  and 
kind  of  white.  He  says  you  read  something  out  of 
a  book,  and  then  you  sang  to  him.  He  says  the  song 
you  sang  was  Eock  of  Ages,  and  it  made  him  feel  so 
bad  I  had  to  cry  to  see  him.  He  come  in,  and  he 
got  down  on  the  lounge  against  our  window,  and  he 
put  his  hand  acrost  his  eyes  and  groaned  like  he  was 
hurted  in  an  accident.  And  he  says, '  Teen,  I  wish  't 
I  was  a  better  man.'  And  I  says,  '  Jack,  I  wish  't 
you  was.'  And  he  says,  '  I  lost  the  hanker  when  I 
heard  her  sing  the  Rock  of  Ages,  and  if  I  lost  the 
hanker  I  could  swear  off.'  So  I  did  n't  answer  him, 
for  if  I  says,  '  Do  swear  off,'  he  'd  just  swear  on,  — 
they  won't,  you  know,  for  wives.  But  I  made  him 
a  cup  of  coffee,  for  I  did  n't  know  what  else  to  do, 
and  I  brought  it  to  him  on  the  lounge,  and  he 
thanked  me.  '  Teen,'  he  says,  '  I  '11  never  drink  a 
drop  again,  so  help  me  Mother  Mary  ! '  And  then 
he  kissed  me,  —  for  they  don't,  you  know,  after 
you  've  been  married.  And  he  's  gone  out  haddockin', 
but  we  parted  very  kind.  And  so  I  come  to  tell  you, 
for  it  may  n't  be  many  days  that  I  could  walk  it, 
and  I  've  ben  that  to  him  as  I  said  I  should,  and  I 
thought  you  'd  better  know." 

"  You  've  had  no  breakfast,"  answered  Mother 
Mary,  "  and  you  've  walked  too  far.  Here,  stop  at 
the  Holly  Tree  as  you  go  home ;  get  a  bowl  of  soup  ; 
and  take  the  ferry  back.     There,  there  !  don't   cry 


JACK  THE  FISHERMAN.  131 

quite  so  hard.  I  '11  try  to  stay  a  little  longer.  I 
won't  leave  town  till  Jack  comes  in.  It  takes  the 
Rock  of  Ages  to  cure  the  hanker,  Teen.  But  I  've 
seen  older  men  than  he  is  stop  as  if  they  had  been 
stopped  by  a  lasso  thrown  from  heaven.  If  there  's 
any  save  in  him,"  added  Mother  Mary  below  her 
breath,  "  he  shall  have  his  chance,  this  time." 

He  went  aboard  sober,  and  sober  he  stayed.  He 
kept  a  good  deal  by  himself  and  thought  of  many 
things.  His  face  paled  out  and  refined,  as  their 
faces  do,  from  abstinence  ;  the  ghost  of  his  good 
looks  hovered  about  him ;  he  mended  up  his 
clothes  ;  he  did  a  kind  turn  to  a  messmate  now  and 
then;  he  told  some  excellent  clean  stories,  and 
raised  the  spirits  of  the  crew ;  he  lent  a  dollar  to 
a  fellow  with  the  rheumatism  who  had  an  indebted- 
ness to  liquidate  for  St.  Galen's  Oil.  When  he  had 
done  this,  he  remembered  that  he  had  left  his  wife 

without  money,  and  said  aloud :  "  That  's  a  d 

mean  trick  to  play  on  a  woman." 

He  had  bad  luck,  however,  that  trip ;  his  share 
was  small ;  he  made  seven  dollars  and  twenty-seven 
cents  in  three  weeks.  This  was  conceded  by  the 
crew  of  the  fishing  -  schooner  (her  name  was  the 
Destiny)  to  be  because  Jack  had  "sworn  off."  It 
is  a  superstition  among  them.  One  unfamiliar  with 
the  lives  of  these  men  will  hammer  cold  iron  if  he 
thinks  to  persuade  them  that  rum  and  luck  do  not 
go  together  ;  or  that  to  "  reform  "  does  not  imply  a 
reduction  of  personal  income.  You  might  as  well 
try  to  put  the  fisherman's  fist  into  a  Honiton  lace 
jumper,  as  the  fisherman's  mind  into  proportion 
upon  this  point. 


132  JACK  THE  FISHERMAN. 

Therefore  Jack  took  his  poor  trip  carelessly;  it 
was  to  be  expected ;  he  would  explain  it  to  Mother 
Mary  when  he  got  in.  He  drank  nothing  at  all ;  and 
they  weighed  for  home. 

When  Jack  stepped  off  the  Destiny,  at  Zephaniah 
Salt  &  Co.'s  wharf  at  Fairharbor,  after  that  voyage, 
clean,  pale,  good-natured,  and  sober,  thinking  that 
he  would  get  shaved  before  he  hurried  home  to  Teen, 
and  wishing  he  could  pay  the  grocer's  bill  upon  the 
way,  and  thinking  that,  in  default  of  this,  he 
would  start  an  account  at  the  market,  and  carry 
her  a  chop  or  a  sausage,  in  fact,  thinking  about  her 
with  an  absorption  which  resembled  consideration, 
if  not  affection,  —  suddenly  he  caught  her  name 
upon  the  wharves. 

It  may  have  been  said  of  accident,  or  of  the  devil, 
—  God  knew ;  they  may  have  been  too  drunk  to 
notice  Jack  at  first,  or  they  may  have  seen  and 
scented  from  afar  the  bad  blood  they  stirred,  like 
the  hounds  they  were.  It  will  never  be  told.  The 
scandal  of  such  places  is  incredibly  barbarous,  but 
it  is  less  than  the  barbarity  of  drinking  men  to 
a  man  who  strikes  out  from  among  themselves,  and 
fights  for  his  respectability. 

The  words  were  few,  —  they  are  not  for  us,  —  but 
they  were  enough  to  do  the  deed.  Jack  was  quite 
sober.  He  understood.  They  assailed  the  honor  of 
his  home,  the  truth  of  his  wife ;  they  hurled  her 
past  at  her  and  at  himself ;  they  derided  the  trust 
which  he  had  in  her  in  his  absence  ;  they  sneered  at 
the  "  reformed  man "  whose  domestic  prospects 
were  —  as  they  were  ;  they  exulted  over  him  with 
the  exultation  in  the  sight  of  the  havoc  wrought, 
Avhich  is  the  most  inexplicable  impulse  of  evil. 


JACK  THE  FISHERMAN.  133 

Everybody  knew  how  hot-blooded  Jack  was  ;  and 
when  the  fury  rushed  red  over  his  face  painted  gray 
by  abstinence,  there  was  a  smart  scattering  upon 
the  wharves. 

His  hand  clapped  to  his  pockets  ;  but  his  was  an 
old,  cheap,  rusty  pistol  (he  had  swapped  a  Bible 
and  his  trawls  for  it  once,  upon  a  spree,  and  got 
cheated) ;  it  held  but  one  cartridge,  and  his  wrist 
shook.  The  shot  went  sputtering  into  the  water, 
and  no  harm  came  of  it.  Jack  jammed  the  pistol 
back  into  his  pocket ;  he  glared  about  him  madly, 
but  had  his  glare  for  his  pains ;  the  men  were 
afraid  of  him  ;  he  was  alone  upon  the  wharf. 

It  can  hardly  be  said  that  he  hesitated.  "Would 
that  it  could.  Eaving  to  himself,  —  head  down, 
hands  clenched,  feet  stumbling  like  a  blind  man's, — 
the  fisherman  sank  into  the  first  open  door  he  stag- 
gered by,  as  a  seiner,  pierced  by  an  invisible  sword- 
fish,  sinks  into  the  sea.  He  had  fifteen  such  places 
to  pass  before  he  reached  his  house.  His  chances 
were  —  as  such  chances  go  —  at  best. 

He  drank  for  half  an  hour  —  an  hour  —  a  half 
more  —  came  out,  and  went  straight  home. 

It  was  now  night  of  a  February  day.  It  had  not 
been  a  very  cold  day ;  a  light,  clean  snow  had  fallen, 
which  was  thawing  gently.  Jack,  looking  dimly  on 
through  his  craze,  saw  the  light  of  his  half  of  the 
gray  cottage  shining  ahead ;  he  perceived  that  the 
frost  was  melted  from  the  windows.  The  warm 
color  came  quietly  down  to  greet  him  across  the 
fresh  snow  ;  it  had  to  him  in  his  delirium  the  look 
of  a  woman's  eyes  when  they  are  true,  and  lean  out 
of  her  love  to  greet  a  man.  He  did  not  put  this  to 
himself  in  these  words,  but  only  said :  — 


134  JACK  THE  FISHERMAN. 

"  Tliem  lamps  look  like  she  used  to,  —  curse 
her  ! "  and  so  went  hurtling  on. 

He  dashed  up  against  the  house,  as  a  bowsprit 
dashes  on  the  rocks,  took  one  mad  look  through  the 
unfrosted  window,  below  the  half-drawn  curtain, 
and  flung  himself  against  the  door,  and  in. 

His  wife  sat  there  in  the  great  rocking-chair,  lean- 
ing back  ;  she  had  a  pillow  behind  her,  and  her  feet 
on  the  salt-fish  box  which  he  had  covered  once 
to  make  a  cricket  for  her,  when  they  were  first  mar- 
ried. She  looked  pale  and  pretty  —  very  pretty. 
She  was  talking  to  a  visitor  who  sat  upon  the 
lounge  beside  her.  It  was  a  man.  Now,  Jack 
knew  this  man  well ;  it  was  an  old  messmate  ;  he 
had  sworn  off,  a  year  ago,  and  they  had  gone  differ- 
ent ways  ;  he  used  to  be  a  rough  fellow  ;  but  people 
said  now  you  would  n't  know  him. 

"  I  ain't  so  drunk  but  I  see  who  you  be,  Jim," 
began  the  husband  darkly  ;  "  I  '11  settle  with  you 
another  day.  I  've  got  that  to  say  to  my  wife  I  'd 
say  better  if  we  missed  your  company.  Leave  us 
by  ourselves  !  " 

"  Look  here,  Jack,"  Jim  flashed  good-humoredly, 
"  you  're  drunk,  you  know.  She  '11  tell  you  what  I 
come  for.  You  ask  her.  Seein'  she  was  n't  right 
smart,  —  and  there 's  them  as  sa3^s  she  lacked  for 
victuals,  —  my  wife  sent  me  over  with  a  bowl  of 
cranberry  sass,  so  help  me  Heaven  !  " 

"  I  '11  kill  you  some  other  evenin'.  Leave  us  be  ! " 
cried  Jack. 

"  We  was  settin'  and  talkin'  about  the  Reform 
Club  when  you  come  in,"  objected  Jim,  with  the 
patience   of  an   old  friend.     "  We   was    wohderiu' 


JACK  THE  FISHERMAN.  135 

if  we  could  n't  get  you  to  sign,  Jack.  Ask  her  if  we 
was  n't.  Come,  now !  I  would  n't  make  a  fool  of 
myself  if  I  was  you.  Jack.  See  there.  You  've  set 
her  to  cryin'  already.     And  she  ain't  right  smart." 

"  Clear  out  of  my  house  ! "  ^  thundered  Jack. 
"  Leave  us  be  by  ourselves  ! " 

"  I  don't  know 's  I  'd  oughter,"  hesitated  Jim. 

"  Leave  us  be !  or  I  won't  leave  you  be  a  d 

minute  longer !  Ain't  it  my  house  ?  Get  out  of 
it!" 

"  It  is,  that 's  a  fact,"  admitted  the  visitor,  look- 
ing perplexed ;  "  but  I  declare  to  Jupiter  I  don't 
know 's  I  'd  oughter  leave  it,  the  way  things 
look.  Have  your  senses,  Jack,  my  boy !  Have 
your  senses  !     She  ain't  right  smart." 

But  with  this  Jack  sprang  upon  him,  and  the 
wife  cried  out  between  them,  for  the  love  of  mercy, 
that  murder  would  be  done. 

"  Leave  us  be  !  "  she  pleaded,  sobbing.  "  Kothin' 
else  won't  pacify  him.  Go,  Jim,  go,  and  shut  the 
door,  and  thank  her,  for  the  cranberry  sarse  was 
very  kind  of  her,  and  for  my  husband's  sake  don't 
tell  nobody  he  was  n't  kind  to  me.  There.  That 's 
right.     There." 

She  sank  back  into  the  rocking-chair,  for  she  was 
feeble  still,  and  looked  gently  up  into  her  husband's 
face.  All  the  tones  of  her  agitated  voice  had 
changed. 

She  spoke  very  low  and  calmly,  as  if  she  gathered 
her  breath  for  the  first  stage  of  a  struggle  whose 
nature  she  solemnly  understood.  She  had  grown 
exceedingly  pale. 

1  Such  peculiarities  of  Jack's  pronunciation  as  were  attribu- 
able  to  his  condition  will  not  be  reproduced  here. 


136  JACK  THE  FISHERMAN. 

"  Jack,  dear  ?  "  softly. 

"  I  '11  give  ye  time,"  he  answered  with  an  omi- 
nous quiet.     "  Tell  yer  story  first.     Out  with  it ! " 

"  I  have  n't  got  nothin'  to  tell,  Jack.  He  brought 
the  cranberry  sarse,  for  his  wife  took  care  of  me, 
and  she  was  very  kind.  And  he  set  a  little,  and  we 
was  talkin'  about  the  club,  just  as  he  says  we  was. 
It 's  Mother  Mary's  club.  Jack.  She  's  made  Jim 
secretary,  and  she  wanted  you  to  join,  for  I  told  her 
you  'd  reformed.  Oh,  Jack,  I  told  her  you  'd  re- 
formed !  —  Jack,  Jack  !  Oh,  Jack  !  What  are  you 
goin'  to  do  to  me !  What  makes  you  look  like 
that  ?  —  Jack,  Jack,  Jack  !  " 

"  Stand  up  here  ! "  he  raved.  He  was  past  rea- 
son, and  she  saw  it ;  he  tore  off  his  coat  and  pushed 
up  his  sleeves  from  his  tattooed  arms. 

"  You  've  played  me  false,  I  say  !  I  trusted  ye, 
and  you  've  tricked  me.  I  '11  teach  ye  to  be  the 
talk  upon  the  wharves  another  time  Avhen  I  get 
in  from  Georges' !  " 

She  stood  as  he  bade  her,  tottered  and  sank  back ; 
crawled  up  again,  holding  by  the  wooden  arm  of  the 
rocking-chair,  and  stretched  one  hand  out  to  him, 
feebly.  She  did  not  dare  to  touch  him  ;  if  she  had 
clung  to  him,  he  would  have  throttled  her.  When 
she  saw  him  rolling  up  his  sleeves,  her  heart  stood 
still.  But  Teen  thought :  ''  I  will  not  show  him 
I  'm  afraid  of  him.    It 's  the  only  chance  I  've  got." 

The  poor  girl  looked  up  once  into  his  face,  and 
thought  she  smiled. 

"  Jack  ?     Bear  Jack  !  " 

"  I  '11  teach  ye  !     I  '11  teach  ye  ! " 

"  Oh,    wait   a   moment.    Jack.     For   the   love    of 


JACK  THE  FISHERMAN.  137 

Heaven,  —  stop  a  mhiiite  !  I  've  been  that  I  said 
I'd  be  to  you,  since  we  was  married.  I've  been  an 
honest  wife  to  you,  my  boy,  and  tliere  ""s  none  on 
earth  nor  heaven  as  can  look  me  in  the  eye  and 
darsu  to  say  I  have  n't.  I  swore  to  you  upon  the 
Eock  of  Ages,  Mother  Mary  witnessin',  —  why, 
Jack ! "  her  voice  sank  to  infinite  sweetness,  "  have 
you  forgotten  ?  You  ain't  yourself,  poor  boy. 
You  '11  be  so  sorry.  I  ain't  very  strong,  yet,  — 
you  'd  feel  bad  if  you  should  hit  me  —  again.  I  'd 
hate  to  have  you  feel  so  bad.  Jack,  dear,  don't.  Go 
look  in  the  other  room,  before  you  strike  again.  Ye 
ain't  seen  it  yet.  Jack^  for  the  love  of  mercy  I  — 
Jack !     Jack  ! " 

"  Say  you  've  played  me  false,  and  I  '11  stop. 
Own  up,  and  I  '11  quit.     Own  up  to  me,  I  say  !  " 

"  I  can't  own  up  to  you,  for  I  sAvore  you  by  the 
Eock  of  Ages ;  I  swore  you  I  would  be  an  honest 
wife.  You  may  pummel  me  to  death,  but  I  '11  not 
lie  away  them  words  I  swore  to  you  ...  by  that, 
.  .  .  Jack,  for  the  love  of  Heaven,  don't  you.  Jack ! 
For  the  way  you  used  to  feel  to  me,  dear,  dear 
Jack !  For  the  sake  of  the  babies  we  had,  .  .  .  and 
you  walked  beside  of  me,  to  bury  'em  !  Oh,  for 
God's  sake  .  .  .  Jack  !  .  .  .  Oh,  you  said  you  'd  be 
kind  to  me  .  .  .  Oh,  you  '11  be  so  sorry  !  For  the 
love  of  pity  !  For  the  love  of  God !  ^STot  the  pistol ! 
Oh,  for  the  Eock  of  "  — 

But  there  he  struck  her  down.  The  butt  end  of 
the  weapon  was  heavy  enough  to  do  the  deed.  He 
struck,  and  then  flung  it  away. 

Upon  his  bared  arm,  as  it  came  crashing,  the  cru- 
cifix was  spattered  red. 


138  JACK  THE  FISHERMAN 


He  stood  up  stupidly  and  looked  about  the  room. 
The  covers  were  ott'  the  kitchen  stove,  and  the  heart 
of  the  coals  blazed  out.  Her  yellow  hair  had 
loosened  as  she  fell,  and  shone  upon  the  floor. 

He  remembered  that  she  spoke  about  the  other 
room,  and  said  of  something  yonder,  that  he  had  n't 
seen  it  yet.  Confusedly  he  wondered  what  it  was. 
He  stumbled  in  and  stared  about  the  bedroom.  It 
was  not  very  light  there,  and  it  was  some  moments 
before  he  perceived  the  cradle,  standing  straight 
across  his  way.  The  child  waked  as  he  hit  the 
cradle,  and  began  to  cry,  stretching  out  its  hands. 

He  had  forgotten  all  about  the  baby.  There  had 
been  so  many. 

"  You  'd  better  get  up.  Teen,"  he  said  as  he  went 
out ;  "  it 's  cryin'  after  you." 

He  shut  the  door  and  staggered  down  the  steps. 
He  hesitated  once,  and  thought  he  would  go  back 
and  say  to  her  :  — 

"  What 's  the  use  of  layin'  there  ?  " 

But  he  thought  better,  or  worse,  of  it,  and  went  his 
way.  He  went  out  and  reshipped  at  once,  lingering 
only  long  enough  to  drink  madly  on  the  way,  at  a 
place  he  knew,  where  he  was  sure  to  be  let  alone. 
The  men  were  afraid  of  Jack,  when  he  was  so  far 
gone  under  as  this.  Nobody  spoke  to  him.  He 
went  down  to  Salt  Brothers'  wharf,  opposite  Salt  & 
Co.'s,  and  found  the  Daredevil,  just  about  to  weigh. 
She  was  short  by  one  hand,  and  took  him  as  he 
was. 


JACK  THE  FISHERMAN.  139 

He  was  surprised  to  find  himself  aboard  when  the 
next  sun  went  down  ;  he  had  turned  in  his  bunk  and 
was  overheard  to  call  for  Teen,  ordering  her  to  do 
some  service  for  him,  testily  enough. 

"  Oh,'"  he  muttered,  "  she  ain't  here,  is  she  ?  Be 
blasted  if  I  ain't  on  the  Daredevil." 

He  was  good  for  nothing,  for  a  matter  of  days,  and 
silent  or  sullen  for  the  trip.  It  had  been  a  heavy 
spree.  He  fell  to,  when  he  came  to  himself,  and 
fished  desperately ;  his  luck  turned,  and  he  made 
money ;  he  made  seventy-five  dollars.  They  were 
gone  three  weeks.  They  had  a  bitter  voyage,  for  it 
was  ]\[arch. 

They  struck  a  gale  at  Georges',  and  another  com- 
ing home.  It  snowed  a  great  deal,  and  the  rigging 
froze.  The  crew  were  imcommonly  cold.  They  kept 
the  steward  cooking  briskly,  and  four  or  five  hot 
meals  a  day  were  not  enough  to  keep  one's  courage 
up.  They  were  particular  about  their  cooking,  as 
fishermen  are,  and  the  steward  of  the  Daredevil  was 
famous  in  his  calling.  But  it  Avas  conceded  to  be 
unusually  cold,  even  for  March,  at  Georges'.  One 
must  keep  the  blood  racing,  somehow,  for  life's 
sake. 

Whiskey  flowed  fast  between  meals.  Jack  was 
observed  not  to  limit  himself.  "  It  was  for  luck," 
he  said.  Take  it  through,  it  was  a  hard  trip.  The 
sober  men — there  were  some  —  looked  grim  and 
pinched  ;  the  drinkers,  ugly. 

"  It 's  a  hound's  life,"  said  a  dory-mate  of  Jack's 
one  day.  His  name  was  Eowe  —  Rowe  Salt ;  he  was 
a  half-brother  of  Jim's.  But  Jim  Avas  at  home.  And 
Teen,  of  course,  was  at  home.     Jack  had  not  spoken 


140  JACK  THE  FISHEEMAN. 

of  her ;  he  had  thought  of  her,  —  he  had  thought  of 
nothing  else.  God  knows  what  those  thoughts  had 
been.  When  Eowe  spoke  to  him  in  this  fashion, 
Jack  looked  hard  at  him. 

"  I  've  ben  thinkin'  ef  it  disobligated  a  feller,"  he 
said. 

"  Hey  ?  "  asked  Eowe. 

"  If  you  was  treated  like  folks  ;  but  you  ain't. 
You're  froze.  You're  soaked.  You're  wrecked. 
Your  nets  is  stole.  You  're  drove  off  in  the  fog. 
You  're  drownded,  and  you  lose  your  trawls.  If  you 
swear  off,  you  miss  your  luck.  It's  dirty  aboard. 
Folks  don't  like  the  looks  of  you.  There  's  alwers  a 
hanker  in  the  pit  o'  your  stomick.  "When  you  get 
upon  a  tear  you  don't  know  what  you  —  do  to  — 
folks." 

Jack  stopped  himself  abrupt^,  and  leaned  upon 
his  oar;  they  were  trawling,  and  the  weather  grew 
thick. 

"  Eowe,"  he  said,  staring  off  into  the  fog,  "  did  ye 
ever  think  we  was  like  fishes,  us  fishin'  folks  ?  " 

"I  don't  know's  I  hev,"  said  the  dory-mate,  star- 
ing too. 

"  Well,  we  be,  I  think.  We  live  in  it  and  we  're 
drownded  in  it,  and  we  can't  get  out  on 't  —  we  can't 
(/et  out.  We  look  like  'em,  too.  I  've  thought  about 
that.  Some  of  us  look  like  haddock.  You  've  got 
the  halibut  look,  yourself.  Skipper,  he's  got  the 
jib  of  a  monk-fish, — you  ken  see  it  for  yourself. 
There  's  a  man  I  messed  with,  once,  reminded  me 
of  a  sculpin.  I  guess  I  'd  pass  for  a  lobster,  myself, 
—  for  color,  anyhow.  We  take  it  out  someways, 
each  on  us.     Don't  ye  know  the  look  the  women 


JACK  THE  FISHERMAN.  141 

folks  have  when  they  get  old  and  have  gone  hun- 
gry ?  You  can  tell  by  the  build  of  a  boy  which  way 
he  '11  turn  out,  —  halibut  way,  or  hake,  or  mebbe 
mackerel  if  he  's  sleek  and  little.  It 's  a  kind  of  a 
birth-mark,  I  should  n't  wonder.  There 's  no  gettin' 
out  on 't,  no  more  'n  it  out  of  you.  Sometimes  I 
used  to  think  — 

"  Good  Lord !  "  cried  Jack.  He  laid  down  his  oar 
again,  and  the  dory  wheeled  to  starboard  sharply. 

"  Eowe  Salt,  you  look  there  !  You  tell  me  if  you 
see  a  woman  yonder,  on  the  water  !  " 

"You've  got  the  jim-jams,  Jack.  Women  folks 
don't  walk  at  Georges'.  I  can't  see  nothin'  nowhere, 
but  it 's  thick  as  "  — 

"It's  thick  as  hell,"  interrupted  Jack,  "and 
there  's  a  woman  walkin'  on  the  water,  —  Lord  ! 
don't  you  see  her  ?  Lord  !  her  hair  is  yeller  hair, 
and  it 's  streamin'  over  her,  —  don't  ijou  see  her  ? 
She 's  walkin'  on  this  devilish  fog  to-wards  the 
dory,  —  Teen  ?  Teen !  There  !  Lord  save  me, 
Eowe,  if  I  did  n't  see  my  wife  come  walkin'  to- 
wards us,  us  settin'  in  this  dory  !  Hi-i-igh !  I  '11 
swear  off  when  I  get  home.  I  '11  tell  her  so.  I  hate 
to  see  such  things." 

"  You  see,  Eowe,"  Jack  added  presently,  —  for  he 
had  not  spoken  after  that,  but  had  fallen  grimly  to 
work ; .  it  was  ten  below,  and  the  wind  was  taking 
the  backward  spring  for  a  bitter  blow ;  both  men, 
tugging  at  their  trawls  through  the  high  and  icy 
sea,  were  suffering  too  much  to  talk,  —  "ye  see  we 
had  some  words  before  I  come  aboard,  and  she 
war  n't  right  smart.  The  baby  can't  be  very  old.  I 
don'  know  how  old  it  is.      I  was  oncommon  drunk ; 


142  JACK  THE  FISHERMAN. 

I  don't  remembei-  Avhat  I  did  to  her.  I  'm  afraid  I 
hit  her,  —  for  1  had  some  words  with  her.  I  wish  't 
I  was  at  home.  She  won't  tell  nobody.  She  never 
does.  But  I  'm  set  to  be  at  home  and  tell  her  I  've 
sworn  off.  I  've  got  money  for  her  this  trip,  too ; 
I  'm  afraid  she  's  in  a  hurry  for  it." 

After  this  outburst  of  confidence,  Jack  seemed  to 
cling  to  his  dory-mate ;  he  followed  him  about  deck, 
and  looked  wistfully  at  him.  Jack  had  begun  to 
take  on  the  haggard  look  of  the  abstainer  once  again. 
The  crew  thought  he  did  not  seem  like  himself.  He 
had  stopped  drinking,  abruptly,  after  that  day  in 
the  fog,  and  suffered  heavily  frcm  the  weather  and 
from  exposure. 

"  I  say,  Kowe,"  he  asked  one  day,  "  if  anything 
was  to  happen,  would  you  jest  step  in  and  tell  my 
wife  I  did  n't  believe  that  yarn  about  her  ?  She  '11 
know." 

Now  it  befell,  that  when  they  Avere  rounding 
Eastern  Point,  and  not  till  then,  they  bespoke  the 
Destiny,  which  was  outward  bound,  and  signaled 
them.  She  drew  to  speaking  distance,  and  her  skip- 
per had  a  word  with  the  master  of  the  Daredevil, 
but  he  spoke  none  too  loud,  and  made  his  errand 
quickly,  and  veered  to  his  own  course,  and  the  two 
boats  parted  company,  and  the  Daredevil  came  bus- 
tling in.     They  were  almost  home. 

It  was  remembered  afterward  that  Jack  was  badly 
frostbitten  upon  that  voyage ;  he  looked  badly ;  he 
had  strange  ways;  the  men  did  not  know  exactly 
how  to  take  him.     He  was  overheard  to  say :  — 

"  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  go  to  Georges'  again." 

Eowe   Salt   overheard  this,  after  the   skipper   of 


JACK  THE  FISHEEMAN.  143 

the  Destiny  had  signaled  and  tacked.  Jack  was  sit- 
ting aft  alone,  when  he  said  it,  looking  seaward.  He 
had  paid  little  or  no  attention  to  the  incident  of  the 
Destiny,  but  sat  staring,  plunged  in  some  mood  of  his 
own  which  seemed  as  solitary,  as  removed  from  his 
kind  and  from  their  comprehension,  as  the  moods  of 
mental  disorder  are  from  the  sane. 

So  then,  with  such  dexterity  as  the  ignorant  man 
could  muster,  Salt  got  his  friend  down  below,  on 
some  pretext,  and  stood  looking  at  him  helplessly. 

"You  don't  look  well,  Eowe,"  Jack  suggested 
pleasantly. 

"  Jack,"  said  his  dory-mate,  turning  white  enough, 
''  I  '11  make  no  bones  of  it,  nor  mince  nothin',  for 
somebody 's  got  to  tell  ye,  and  they  said  it  must  be 
me.  There 's  a  warrant  after  ye.  The  sheriff 's  on 
the  tug  betwixt  us  and  the  wharf.  She 's  layin'  off 
the  island,  him  aboard  of  her." 

"  I  never  was  in  prison,"  faltered  Jack.  "  The 
boys  have  always  bailed  me." 

"  'T  ain't  a  bailin'  matter,  Jack,  this  time." 

"  What  did  you  say  ?  " 

"  I  said  it  was  n't  a  bailin'  business.  Somebody  's 
got  to  tell  you." 

Jack  gazed  confidingly  up  into  his  friend's  face. 

"  What  was  it  that  I  done,  old  boy  ?  Can't  ye  tell 
me  ?  " 

"  Let  the  sheriff  tell  you.  Ask  the  sheriff.  I  'd 
rather  it  was  the  sheriff  told  you,  Jack." 

"  Tell  me  what  it  is  I  done,  Eowe  Salt ;  I  'd  tell 
?/o?«." 

He  looked  puzzled. 

"  The   sheriff   knows    more   about   it   nor  I   do," 


144  JACK  THE  FISHERMAN. 

begged  the  fislierinan  ;  '^  don't  make  an  old  mess- 
mate tell  you." 

"  All  right,"  said  Jack,  turning  away.  He  had 
now  grown  very  quiet.  He  pleaded  no  more,  only  to 
mutter  once :  — 

"  I  'd  rather  heard  it  from  a  messmate." 

Eowe  Salt  took  a  step  or  two,  turned,  stopped, 
stirred,  and  turned  again. 

"  You  killed  somebody,  then,  if  you  will  know." 

"  Killed  somebody  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  was  drunk  and  killed  somebody  ?  " 

"  Lord  help  you,  yes." 

"  I  hope,"  —  hoarsely  —  "  look  here,  Salt,  —  /  hope 
Teen  wonH  know. 

"  I  say,  Kowe,"  after  a  long  pause,  "  who  was  it 
that  I  killed  ?  " 

"  Ask  the  sherifE." 

"  Who  was  it  that  I  killed  ?  " 

"  The  skipper  '11  tell  you,  mebby.  I  won't.  No,  I 
vow  I  won't.  Let  me  go.  I  've  done  my  share  of 
this.     Let  me  up  on  deck  !     I  want  the  air  ! " 

"  I  won't  let  you  up  on  deck  —  so  help  me  !  —  till 
you  tell ! " 

"  Let  me  off,  Jack,  let  me  off !  " 

"  Tell  me  %vlio  it  tvas,  I  soy  !  " 

''  Lord  in  heaven,  the  poor  devil  don't  kmnn,  —  he 
really  don't." 

"  I  thought  you  would  ha'  told  me,  Rowe,"  said 
Jack  with  a  smile,  —  his  old  winning  smile,  that  had 
captivated  his  messmates  all  his  life. 

"  I  tvill  tell  you  !  "  cried  Eow^e  Salt  with  an  oath 
of  agony.  *'  You  killed  your  wife  !  You  murdered 
her.    She 's  dead.     Teen  ain't  to  home.    She  's  dead." 


JACK  THE  FISHERMAN.  145 


VI. 

They  made  way  for  him  at  this  side  and  at  that, 
for  he  sprang  up  the  gangway,  and  dashed  among 
them.  When  he  saw  them  all  together,  and  how 
they  looked  at  him,  he  stopped.  A  change  seemed 
to  strike  his  purpose,  be  it  what  it  might. 

"  Boys,"  said  Jack,  looking  all  about,  "  ye  won't 
have  to  go  no  bail  for  me.  I  '11  bide  my  account, 
this  time." 

He  parted  from  them,  for  they  let  him  do  the 
thing  he  would,  and  got  himself  alone  into  the  bows, 
and  there  he  sank  down,  crouching,  and  no  one  spoke 
to  him. 

The  Daredevil  rounded  Eastern  Point,  and  down 
the  shining  harbor,  all  sails  set,  came  gayly  in.  They 
were  almost  home. 

Straightway  there  started  out  upon  the  winter  sea 
a  strong,  sweet  tenor,  like  a  cry.  It  was  Jack's 
voice,  —  everybody  knew  it.  He  stood  by  himself  in 
the  bows,  back  to  them,  singing  like  an  angel  or  a 
madman,  —  some  said  this,  some  said  the  other,  — 

' '  Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me  ! 
Let  me  hide  myself  in  thee  ;  .  .  . 

Thou  must  save,  and  thou  alone  .  .  . 

When  I  soar  to  worlds  unknown, 
See  thee  on  thy  judgment  throne,"  — 

sang  Jack. 

With  the  ceasing  of  his  voice,  they  divined  how  it 
was,  by  one  instinct,  and  every  man  sprang  to  him. 
But  he  had  leaped  and  gained  on  them. 


146  JACK  THE  FISHERMAN. 

The  waters  of  Fairliarbor  seemed  themselves  to 
leap  to  greet  him  as  he  went  down.  These  that  had 
borne  him  and  ruined  him  buried  him  as  if  they 
loved  him.  He  had  pushed  up  his  sleeves  for  the 
spring,  hard  to  the  shoulder,  like  a  man  who  would 
wrestle  at  odds. 

As  he  sank,  one  bared  arm,  thrust  above  the  crest 
of  the  long  wave,  lifted  itself  toward  the  sky.  It 
was  his  right  arm,  on  which  the  crucifix  was  stamped. 


VII. 

White  and  gold  as  the  lips  and  heart  of  a  lily,  the 
day  blossomed  at  Fairharbor  one  June  Sunday,  when 
these  things  were  as  a  tale  that  is  told.  It  was  a 
warm  day,  sweet  and  stilL  There  was  no  wind,  no 
fog.  The  harbor  wore  her  innocent  face.  She  has 
one  ;  who  can  help  believing  in  it,  to  see  it  ?  The 
waves  stretched  themselves  vipon  the  beach  as  if 
they  had  been  hands  laid  out  in  benediction ;  and 
the  colors  of  the  sky  were  like  the  expression  of  a 
strong  and  solemn  countenance. 

So  thought  Mother  Mary,  standing  by  her  hus- 
band's side  that  day,  and  looking  off  from  the  little 
creature  in  her  arms  to  the  faces  of  the  fishermen 
gathered  there  about  her  for  the  service.  It  was  an 
open-air  service,  held  upon  the  beach,  where  the  peo- 
ple she  had  served  and  loved  could  freely  come  to 
her  —  and  would.  They  had  sought  the  scene  in 
large  numbers.  The  summer  people,  too,  strolled 
down,  distant  and  different,  and  hung  upon  the  edges 
of  the   group.     They  had  a  civil  welcome,  but  no 


JACK  THE  FISHERMAN.  147 

more.  This  was  a  fisherman's  affair  ;  nobody  needed 
them ;  Mother  Mary  did  not  belong  to  them. 

"The  meetin 's  ours,"  said  Eowe  Salt.  ''It's  us 
she  's  after.  The  boarders  ain't  of  no  account  to 
her." 

His  brother  Jim  was  there  with  Eowe,  and  Jim's 
Avife,  and  some  of  the  respectable  women  neighbors. 
The  skipper  of  the  Daredevil  was  there,  and  so  were 
many  of  Jack's  old  messmates.  When  it  was  under- 
stood that  Mother  Mary  had  adopted  Jack's  baby, 
the  news  had  run  like  rising  tide,  from  wharf  to 
wharf,  from  deck  to  deck,  —  everybody  knew  it,  by 
this  time.  Almost  everybody  was  there,  to  see  the 
baptism.  The  Fairharbor  fishermen  were  alert  to 
the  honor  of  their  guild.  They  turned  out  in  force 
to  explain  matters,  sensitive  to  show  their  best. 
They  would  have  it  understood  that  one  may  have 
one's  faults,  but  one  does  not,  therefore,  murder 
one's  wife. 

The  scene  in  the  annals  and  the  legends  of  Fair- 
harbor  was  memorable,  and  will  be  long.  It  was  as 
strange  to  the  seamen  as  a  leaf  thrown  over  from  the 
pages  of  the  Book  of  Life,  inscribed  in  an  unknown 
tongue  of  which  they  only  knew  that  it  was  the 
tongue  of  love.  Whether  it  spoke  as  of  men  or  of 
angels,  they  would  have  been  perplexed  to  say. 

Into  her  childless  life,  its  poverty,  its  struggles,  its 
sacrifices,  and  its  blessed  hope,  Mother  Mary's  great 
heart  took  the  baby  as  she  took  a  man's  own  better 
nature  for  him  ;  that  which  lay  so  puny  and  so 
orphaned  in  those  wild  lives  of  theirs,  an  infant  in 
her  hands. 

Jack's  baby  —  Jack's  baby  and  Teen's,  as  if  it  had 


148  JACK  THE  FISHERMAN. 

been  anybody  else's  baby,  was  to  be  baptized  "  like 
folks."  Jack's  baby,  poor  little  devil,  was  to  have 
his  chance. 

The  men  talked  it  over  gravely  ;  it  affected  them 
Avith  a  respect  one  would  not  anticipate,  who  did  not 
know  them.  They  had  their  Sunday  clothes  on. 
They  were  all  clean.  They  had  a  quiet  look.  One 
fellow  who  had  taken  a  little  too  much  ventured 
down  upon  the  beach  ;  but  he  was  hustled  away 
from  the  christening,  and  ducked  in  the  cove,  and 
hung  upon  the  rocks  to  dry.  One  must  be  sober  who 
helped  to  baptize  that  baby. 

This  Avas  quite  understood. 

They  sang  the  hymn.  Jack's  hymn  and  Teen's :  of 
course  they  sang  the  Eock  of  Ages;  and  Mother 
Mary's  husband  read  "  the  chapter  "  to  them,  as  he 
was  used,  and  spoke  to  them ;  and  it  was  so  still 
among  them  that  they  could  hear  each  wave  of  the 
placid  sea  beat  evenly  as  if  they  listened  to  the  beat- 
ing of  a  near  and  mighty  peaceful  heart.  Mother 
Mary  spoke  with  them  herself  a  little.  She  told 
them  how  she  took  the  child,  in  despair  of  the  past, 
in  hope  of  the  future ;  in  pain  and  in  pity,  and  in 
love;  yearning  over  him,  and  his,  and  those  who 
were  of  their  inheritance,  and  fate,  their  chances, 
and  their  sorrows,  and  their  sins.  She  told  them  of 
the  child's  pure  heart  within  us  all,  which  needs  only 
to  be  mothered  to  be  saved ;  which  needs  only  that 
we  foster  it,  to  form  it ;  which  needs  that  we  treat  it 
as  we  do  other  weak  and  helpless  things,  whether  in 
ourselves  or  in  another.  What  was  noble  in  them 
all,  she  said,  was  to  them  like  this  little  thing  to 
her.     It  was  a  trust.     She  gave  it  to  them,  so  she 


JACK  THE  FISHERMAN.  149 

said,  as  she  took  the  baby,  here  before  their  witness- 
ing, to  spare  liim  from  their  miseries,  if  she  might. 

They  were  touched  by  tliis,  or  they  seemed  to  be  ; 
for  they  listened  from  their  souls. 

"  We  'd  oughter  take  off  our  hats,"  somebody  whis- 
pered. So  they  stood  uncovered  before  the  minister, 
and  Mother  Mary,  and  Jack's  poor  baby.  The  sacred 
drops  flashed  in  the  white  air.  Dreamily  the  fisher- 
men heard  the  sacred  words  :  — 

"In  the  name  of  the  Father:  And  of  the  Son: 
And  of  the  Holy  Ghost.     Amen." 

But  no  one  heard  the  other  words,  said  by  Mother 
Mary  close  and  low,  when  she  received  the  child  into 
her  arms  again,  and  bowed  her  face  above  it :  — 

"Ml/  son,  I  take  thee  for  the  sake  and  for  the  love 
of  thy  father,  and  of  t hi/ mother.  Be  thou  their  holy 
ghost." 

But  the  fishermen,  used  not  to  understand  her,  but 
only  to  her  understanding  them,  perceiving  that  she 
was  at  prayer,  they  knew  not  why,  asking  of  Heaven 
they  knew  not  what,  —  the  fishermen  said :  — 

"  Amen,  Amen." 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  TUBS. 

"Now  there  !"  said  Ellen  Jane  Salt;  "I  'm  tired 
seein'  a  passel  of  folks  squealin'  at  a  snail  shell." 

It  happened  that  much  the  same  view  of  the  case 
was  occupying  Miss  Helen  Ritter  at  the  same  mo- 
ment ;  the  chief  difference  being  that  the  summer 
boarder's  view  was  not  dependent  upon  expression, 
while  that  of  the  "  native  "  (as  usual)  was. 

It  was  what  is  called  a  burning  fog  that  day.  Miss 
Eitter  was  sitting  on  the  cliff  under  a  Japanese  um- 
brella. Twenty  people  were  sitting  under  Japanese 
umbrellas.  Hers,  she  thanked  Heaven,  was  of  ivory- 
color,  plain  and  pale.  No  Turkey  red  flaunted 
fiercely,  nor  purple  mandarin  sprawled  hysterically, 
against  indigo  skies  above  her  individual  head. 
There  is  a  comfort  in  distinction,  even  if  it  go  no 
farther  than  a  paper  sunshade.  Miss  Eitter  enjoyed 
the  added  idiosyncrasy  of  sitting  under  hers  alone. 
She  Avas  often  alone. 

In  July  the  seaside  is  agreeable  ;  in  September, 
irresistible ;  in  October,  intoxicating.  In  August, 
one  does  not  understand  it ;  one  comes  up  suddenly 
against  its  "  other  side,"  as  against  peculiarities  in 
the  character  of  a  friend  known  for  years,  and  unex- 
pectedly putting  the  affection  to  a  vital  test. 

In  August  the  sun  goes  out,  and  the  thick  weather 
comes  in.     The  landlady  is  tired,  and  the  waitress 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  TUBS.  151 

slams  the  plate  ;  the  fog-bell  tolls,  and  the  beach  is 
sloppy ;  the  fog-whistles  screech,  and  one  may  not  go 
a-sailing ;  the  puddings  and  sauces  have  grown  fa- 
miliar, and  one  has  read  too  many  novels  to  stand 
another,  and  yet  not  enough  to  force  one  back,  for 
life's  sake,  on  a  "  course  of  solid  reading."  In 
August  one's  next  neighbor  is  sure  it  was  a  mistake 
not  to  spend  the  season  at  the  mountains.  In  August 
the  babies  on  the  same  corridor  are  sick.  In  August 
one  has  discovered  where  the  milk  is  kept,  and 
frightful  secrets  of  the  drainage  are  gossij)ed  in 
ghastly  whispers  by  the  guests  who  complain  of  the 
dinners  when  the  young  married  lacly  who  rowed  by 
moonlight  with  another  fellow  has  left  the  place,  and 
a  temporary  deficiency  of  scandal.  In  August  one's 
own  particular  beach  is  swarming  and  useless,  one's 
especial  reef  is  populated  and  hideous,  naj'',  one's 
very  crevice  in  the  rock  is  discovered  and  mortgaged 
to  the  current  flirtations,  and  all  nature,  which  had 
seemed  to  be  one's  homestead,  becomes  one's  exile. 
In  August  there  are  hops,  and  one  wants  to  go  away. 
In  August  there  are  flies,  and  the  new  boarder. 

It  is  the  new  boarder  who  is  overaudible  about 
the  snail  shells.  Down  there  in  the  gorge,  where 
the  purple  trap  glitters  at  half -tide  in  great  volcanic 
veins  that  seem  to  pulsate  yet  through  the  clifE  with 
the  fire  imprisoned  there  —  who  knows  when  ?  — 
and  where  the  beaded  brown  kelp  deepens  to  bronze, 
and  then  runs  to  tarnished  gold  in  the  wet,  rich 
pulpy  recession  of  the  ebb,  the  new  boarder  abound- 
eth.  So  the  snails,  —  brown,  green,  orange,  lemon, 
gray,  and  white,  —  the  tiny  shells,  mere  flecks  of 
color,  moved  sluggishly  by  their  cell  of  hidden  con- 


152  THE  MADONNA   OJh    THE  TUBS. 

sciousness  and  will,  like  certain  larger  lives  that  be- 
neath a  mask  of  stagnation  palpitate,  —  the  snails, 
as  I  say,  interest  the  new  boarder.  He  saun- 
ters down  in  groups,  in  clans,  in  hordes,  defiling 
through  the  trap  gorge  —  disproportionately  femi- 
nine, sparsely  but  instructively  masculine,  and  eter- 
nally infantile.  He  views  the  attractions  of  the 
spot  first  enthusiastically,  then  calmly,  now  indiffer- 
ently, and  drifts  away  at  the  third  stage  of  feeling, 
possibly  an  object  of  curiosity  or  envy,  in  his  turn, 
to  the  snail,  who  has  to  stay.  The  first  day  he 
screams  (I  must  be  pardoned  if  I  use  the  generic 
masculine  pronoun  in  this  connection)  at  the  snails ; 
the  second  day  he  observes  them  without  scream- 
ing ;  the  third  he  does  n't  observe  them  at  all.  His 
number  is  infinite,  and  his  place  is  never  vacant. 
His  lady  types  wear  wild  roses  in  their  belts,  inva- 
riably succeeded  by  daisies,  and  rigorously  followed 
by  golden-rod.  It  is  an  endless  procession  of  the 
Alike,  or,  we  may  say,  of  the  great  North  American 
Average, 

Decidedly  on  the  fortunate  side  of  the  average  is 
the  element  that  is  creeping  into  Fairharbor  —  one 
should  say  stepping  in,  for  that  end  of  averages 
never  creeps,  to  be  sure,  —  the  element  not  vocifer- 
ous over  snails,  and  scantily  given  to  floral  decora- 
tion ;  an  element  represented,  for  instance,  by  Miss 
Eitter,  who,  seeking  Fairharbor  for  many  a  summer 
because,  among  other  reasons,  it  gave  her  that  closest 
kind  of  seclusion,  isolation  in  a  crowd  with  which 
one  has  hot  historic  social  relations,  has  sadly  dis- 
covered of  late  that  her  dear,  rough,  plain  rocks  and 
waves  and  boarding-houses  are  becoming  semi-fash- 


THE  MADONNA   OF  THE  TUBS.  153 

ionable,  with  a  threat  even  of  classically  abandoning 
the  compound.  Already  Fairharbor  has  her  hotel 
and  her  daily  steamer,  her  band  and  her  "  distin- 
guished visitors,"  her  mythical  company,  organized 
to  sweep  up  the  huge  solitudes  at  five  dollars  a  foot, 
roadway  forty  feet  wide  thrown  in,  and  wells  if  you 
can  find  any  water  in  them.  Already  she  has  her 
landans  and  her  toilets,  her  French  maids  and  her 
ladies  who  protect  the  complexion.  Already  the 
faithful  old  stagers,  haughtily  unconscious,  are 
stared  at  for  their  thick  boots  and  beach  dresses 
and  gorgeous  coats  of  tan,  and  their  way  of  sitting 
in  the  sand  like  crabs  after  their  vigorous  baths,  in 
which  they  do  not  jump  up  and  down,  but  swim 
sturdily,  battling  with  the  sharp  North  shore  wat- 
ers, and  not  expected  to  scream. 

Miss  Bitter,  a  conspicuous  figure  on  the  cliff's 
edge  above  the  lava  gorge,  might  be  called  an  un- 
conscious link  between  Fairharbor  past  and  Fairhar- 
bor to  be,  possessing  perhaps  the  better  points  in 
both  types  of  "  summer  people,"  luxuriously  dissat- 
isfied with  them,  with  herself,  with  the  world,  even 
just  now  with  Fairharbor.  In  her  white  flannel 
dress  and  white  hat,  with  the  pale  flame-colored  tie 
at  her  throat,  and  the  reflection  from  the  pale  sun- 
shade upon  her,  she  had  a  select,  almost  severe  look, 
which  was  not  lessened  by  any  depreciation  of  effect 
in  motion  when  she  rose  and  walked.  She  had  a 
stately  walk,  and  reminded  one  of  a  calla,  as  she 
turned  her  head  slowly  and  stood  full  to  view,  tall 
and  serious. 

There  was  no  sunset  that  night ;  it  was  a  dog-day, 


154  THE  MADONNA   OF  THE  TUBS. 

damp  and  dead ;  the  fog  had  thickened,  and  was 
crawling  in  like  fate  ;  the  bell  tolled  from  the  light- 
house two  miles  away,  and  the  east  wind  bore  the 
sound  steadily  in. 

Already  the  boarder  children,  who  insisted  on 
going  in  the  skiff,  could  not  be  seen  an  eighth  of  a 
mile  out  at  the  island's  edge  beyond  the  lava  gorge  ; 
and  the  fisherman,  whose  children  knew  better, 
pushed  them  with  a  kiss  from  his  knees  as  he  drew 
in  his  dory  for  the  rescue,  to  comfort  a  distracted 
parent  (in  a  red  parasol)  and  another  one  (rumored 
to  be  a  clergyman,  but  just  now  in  a  bathing  suit), 
whose  inharmonious  opinions  but  harmonious  anx- 
iety were  the  excitement  of  the  hour  upon  the  beach. 
The  bathing  suit  had,  unhappily  for  him,  allowed 
the  children  to  go.  The  red  parasol  had  alwaj'S 
said  they  would  be  drowned. 

"  Don't  ye  fret,"  said  the  fisherman,  with  a  slow 
grin.  "  They  stole  my  old  punt,  an'  she  leaks  so  't  '11 
keep  'em  busy  bailin',  and  they  ca7i't  get  fur.  I  '11 
fetch  'em  this  time,  but  next  time  keep  'em  to  hum. 
Why,  there  ain't  a  doc/  in  Fairharbor  'd  set  out  rowin' 
thick  as  this,  'thout  he  hed  to  go  for  a  doctor  or  see 
to  his  trawls  ;  he  'd  knoiv  better.  But  you  land-lub- 
bers never  do  know  nothin' ;  you  don't  know  enough 
to  know  when  to  be  skeered.  —  H'  are  ye,  Miss  Rit- 
ter  ?  "  as  she  passed  him,  suddenly  gliding  down  the 
cliff,  and  up  the  wet,  uncordial  beach. 

"  That 's  like  you,  Henry.  Your  tongue  is  bound 
to  take  the  edge  off  your  good  deeds  somehow,  like 
plated  silver,  whereas  you  know,  half  the  time,  it 's 
the  solid  thing  underneath.  Now  you  '11  scour  the 
ocean  after  those  children,  and  do  just  as  well  as  if 
vou  had  n't  scolded  about  it." 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  TUBS.  155 

"Better  —  a  sight  better  !  "  chuckled  Henry.  He 
ran  splashing  through  the  water  in  his  huge  red 
leather  boots,  pushing  the  dory  off  with  a  mighty 
shove.  He  moved  the  oars  with  a  fisherman's  superb 
leisure  ;  his  massive  figure  looked  as  if  it  were  etched 
for  a  moment  on  the  mist,  whose  color  and  the  color 
of  his  old  oil -clothes  blurred  together  till  there 
soemed  to  be  only  the  outline  of  a  man.  As  boat 
and  boatman  grew  dimmer  to  the  view,  the  ghostly 
rower  turned  and  shot  back  one  parting  word  at  the 
red  parasol :  — 

"  Look-a-here  !  Jest  you  stop  yowlin',  won't  ye  ? 
You  '11  skeer  them  young  'uns  overboard.  Ef  you 
want  me  to  fetch  'em,  lemme  do  it  in  peace." 

With  this,  the  fog,  with  whose  terrible  and  mys- 
terious swiftness  no  man  may  intermeddle,  shut 
down. 

"  Like  the  curtain  of  death,"  Miss  Bitter  thought, 
looking  over  her  shoulder,  when  man  and  boat  and 
voice  had  vanished  utterly.  She  was  not  given  to 
too  much  consideration  of  the  lot  of  her  fellow-men, 
perhaps ;  her  sympathies  were  well  regulated,  but 
not  acute.  Although  from  Boston,  she  was  not  a 
philanthropist  by  avocation ;  she  took  people  as  they 
came,  or  Avent  —  good-naturedly  enough,  but  not  un- 
comfortably ;  she  had  a  touch  of  the  irresponsibility 
belonging  to  professional  artists ;  she  herself  did 
not  even  paint  tea-cups. 

In  Fairharbor,  for  instance,  it  would  have  been 
easy  to  make  one's  self  miserable.  She  meant  to 
treat  her  neighbors  as  a  lady  should ;  but  why  culti- 
vate neuralgia  of  the  emotions  over  the  fate  of  the 


166      THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  TUBS. 

fleets  ?  It  was  therefore  hardly  characteristic,  and 
struck  her  for  the  moment,  in  an  artistic  sense,  cu- 
riously, as  part  of  the  "  effect "  of  the  whole  wet, 
dull  afternoon,  that  she  should  feel  almost  moved  by 
the  every-day  incident  of  Henry  and  the  dory  and 
the  fog.  He  seemed  to  her  suddenly  like  a  symbol 
of  the  piteous  Fairharbor  life ;  as  one  puts  an  eagle, 
an  arrow,  a  shield,  or  whatever,  upon  the  seal  of  a 
commonwealth  or  upon  a  coin,  so  Fairharbor  might 
take  Henry  ;  so  she  gave  up  her  vigorous  young  life 
that  "  went  down  to  the  sea  in  ships  ;  "  and  so,  ghosts 
before  their  time,  her  doomed  men  trod  her  shores. 

"  I  believe  I  must  stop  and  see  Ellen  Salt  about 
some  laces,"  said  Miss  Eitter,  uncertainly,  to  the 
lady  boarder,  —  with  daisies  and  a  mandarin  parasol, 
now  pulpy  with  the  fog,  and  offering  acute  tempta- 
tion to  stick  one's  fingers  between  the  ribs,  —  the 
lady  who  joined  her  on  the  beach.  It  did  not  matter 
about  the  laces,  but  it  mattered  to  have  to  talk  to 
that  stack  of  daisies  just  then.  The  lady's  leather 
belt  was  tight,  and  the  flowers  seemed  to  gasp  as  if 
they  had  got  into  corsets. 

This  was  the  lady  who  always  complained  of  the 
breakfasts,  and  knew  how  often  every  gentleman  in 
the  hotel  came  to  see  his  wife.  She  was  an  idle, 
pretty,  silly  thing ;  abnormally,  one  might  say  in- 
humanly, luxurious.  She  wore  thirty  thousand  dol- 
lars' worth  of  diamonds,  because  it  was  understood 
she  was  afraid  to  leave  them  in  the  hotel  rooms. 
She  gave  three  dollars  to  the  subscription  for  the 
Fairharbor  widows  of  two  hundred  men  di-owned 
last  year :  she  had  acquired  a  theory  that  one  must 
not  make  paupers. 


THE  MADONNA   OF  THE  TUBS.  157 

As  Helen  Kitter  struck  off  alone  tlirough  tlie  fog, 
down  the  lane,  behind  the  wild-rose  thicket,  under  the 
willow-trees,  and  against  the  big  bowlders,  to  Mrs. 
Salt's  little,  old,  unpaiuted  cottage,  —  picturesquely- 
gray,  and  proportionally  damp,  —  she  was  thinking 
neither  of  the  daisy  and  diamond  boarder,  nor  of  two 
hundred  drowned  fishermen,  nor  even  of  Ellen  Jane 
and  the  weekly  wash. 

So  far  as  her  thoughts  had  organization  rather 
than  pulp,  and  might  have  been  nautically  termed 
more  conscious  than  jelly-fish,  she  was  thinking  — 
still  in  that  same  amusing,  outside,  artistic  sense  — 
of  herself ;  looking  on,  as  she  looked  on  at  the  sum- 
mer people  and  the  fishermen,  with  an  unimpas- 
sioned,  critical  eye. 

Too  well  we  all  know  those  mad  or  inspired  mo- 
ments (generally  ours  on  dull  afternoons)  when  we 
seem  to  catch  up  the  whole  of  life  at  a  handful,  and 
fling  it  from  ns  utterly  in  a  kind  of  scorn  that  may- 
be wholly  noble  or  trivial,  according  to  the  impulse 
of  the  motion  or  the  direction  of  the  aim. 

She,  —  Helen  Ritter,  of  Beacon  Street,  Boston, 
twenty-eight  years  old,  an  orphan,  a  Brahman  (rich, 
if  one  stopped  to  think  of  that),  and  a  beauty,  mem- 
ber of  Trinity  Church  and  the  Brain  Club,  subscriber 
to  the  Provident  Association,  and  stockholder  in  the 
Athenaeum,  fond  of  her  maid,  her  relatives,  her  bric-a- 
brac,  and  her  way,  —  walking  to  her  washer-woman's 
through  the  fog,  and  suffering  one  of  these  supreme 
moments,  could  have  flung  her  whole  personality 
into  oSTirvana  or  the  ocean  by  one  sweep  of  her  white- 
clad  arm  that  day,  and  felt  well  rid  of  it.  To  be 
sure,  nothing  had  happened. 


158  THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  TUBS. 

That,  perhaps,  was  the  trouble  ? 

"  I  am  a  type,"  said  the  young  woman  aloud.  "  I 
am  nothing  but  a  type;  I  have  no  'use  nor  name 
nor  fame '  under  the  skies,  beyond  standing  for  the 
representative,  like  people  that  make  the  groups  in 
tourists'  photographs.  I  may  thank  Heaven  if  I 
don't  do  it  inartistically,  I  suppose  ;  and  meanwhile 
pay  my  laundress.  I  wonder  why  I  keep  on  coming 
to  Fairharbor  ?  " 

Why,  indeed  ?  Helen  Eitter  to  Helen  Eitter,  in 
the  scorn  of  her  heart  and  the  depth  of  it,  would 
give  no  answer  to  that  question,  but  hit  it  with  her 
fine,  cool  look  as  she  would  any  other  social  in- 
truder, and  passed  it  by  upon  the  other  side.  She 
was  young  for  life  to  have  come  to  what  she  called 
its  end. 

"  Yet  the  light  of  a  whole  life  dies, 
When  love  is  done," 

sang  the  musical  boarder  in  the  hotel  parlor  beyond 
the  rose  thicket.  The  east  wind  bore  the  sound  over 
the  bowlders,  through  the  willow  boughs,  driving 
with  the  fog,  as  if  both  had  been  ghosts  from  the 
hidden  sea. 

Why  cling  to  the  old  spot  where  the  light  of  life 
had  once  been  kindled  and  quenched  ?  Why  dog, 
like  a  spirit  unreleased,  the  haunts  of  that  blessed 
and  accursed  vitality  ?  No,  no.  She  could  not  curse 
it :  no.  Whom  or  what  had  she  to  curse  ?  Fate, 
perhaps,  or  accident,  or  a  man's  terrible  dullness  of 
intellect  before  the  nature  of  the  woman  he  loves,  or 
her  own  doom,  or  her  own  "  way "  —  that  unlucky 
way  which  as  often  wrought  her  mischief  from  being 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  TUBS.  159 

misunderstood  as  from  being  to  blame,  but  wMch. 
was  none  the  less  likely  to  be  to  blame  for  that. 

"  The  mind  has  a  thousand  eyes," 

sang  the  summer  boarder  with  laboriously  acceler- 
ated emphasis,  for  the  gentlemen  had  come  in  from, 
the  beach,  and  were  listening, 

"The  mind  has  a  thousand  eyes, 
And  the  heart  but  one, 
Yet  the  light  of  a  whole  life  dies. 
When  love  is  done." 

"  Well,  there  ! "  said  Ellen  Jane  Salt,  "  do  come  in 
out  of  this  thick  weather.  Fog  's  good  for  your  flan- 
nel dress  ;  bleach  it  out ;  but  my !  ain't  you  sloppy  ? 
You  got  drabbled  on  the  beach.  Just  you  step  up 
agen  my  tubs  and  let  me  wash  out  that  hem  o'  your'n 
jest  as  you  be.  I  '11  stand  you  up  to  the  stove  after, 
and  dry  you  up  a  mite,  too,  and  iron  you  off,  and 
you  '11  be  slick  as  ever.  Pity  !  I  did  you  up  only 
last  Saturday,  you  know  —  There  !  I  'm  drove  to 
death,  but  I  can't  stand  seein'  good  washin'  spoiled 
like  that,  —  and  you,  too,  punctual  as  you  are  with 
the  price,  —  so  many  dozen,  and  so  late  in  the  season 
besides.  No ;  the  laces  was  n't  extry,  thank  you. 
I  'd  be  ashamed  if  I  could  n't  do  a  bit  of  valingcens 
for  you.  But  there  !  I  was  up  till  two  o'clock  this 
mornin'  ironin'  Mrs.  Hannibal  P.  Harrowstone's 
fluted  nigh'gownds  (thread  lace,  every  scrap).  She 
had  six.  I  'm  drove  out  of  my  wits,  and  Eafe  had  to 
have  one  of  his  spells  at  three,  poor  little  fellow ! 
just  as  I  'd  got  a  snooze  in  my  close  atop  of  the  bed- 
spread, for  it  was  so  hot  with  the  heavy  ironin'  fire, 
and  us  so  near  the  cook-stove.     There ! " 


160  THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  TUBS. 

Ellen  Jane  Salt  was  a  little  woman,  thin  and  keen 
of  outline ;  tlie  kind  of  woman  sure  to  marry  a  large 
man,  and  rule  liim  roundly.  She  had  very  bright 
blue  eyes,  sunken  Avith  want  of  sleep ;  and  the  chisel- 
ing of  care  about  her  temples  and  her  mouth  told 
that  her  first  youth  had  passed  in  hand-to-hand 
struggles  with  life,  from  which  middle  age  gave  no 
prospect  of  releasing  her.  The  line  between  her  lips 
indicated  that  nature  had  given  her  a  sweet  temper, 
which  experience  might  push  hard  now  and  then 
under  stress  of  circumstances.  She  had  what  it 
would  be  sufficient  to  call  a  busy  voice,  pitched  like 
the  American  feminine  voice  of  her  class,  but  with- 
out a  shrewish  note  ;  on  the  whole,  making  allow- 
ance for  the  national  key,  what  might  be  called  a 
motherly  or  wifely  voice.  She  had  the  curious, 
watching  look  common  to  the  women  of  Fairharbor, 
acquired  from  that  observation  of  the  sea  with  which 
the  summer  boarder  is  unfamiliar.  A  little  anxious 
running  down  to  the  beach  now,  or  the  wharf  then, 
when  the  fog  sets  in ;  a  little  more  restless  climbing 
of  the  cliff  when  the  wind  rises ;  this  peering  for  the 
dory  before  dawn,  or  searching  for  the  sail  at  dusk, 
or  scanning  the  headland  by  moonlight,  or  asking  the 
dead  of  night  to  give  the  absent  head-light  to  strain- 
ing eyes,  or  beating  about  over  the  downs  in  the 
November  gales  with  the  glass  which  trembles  in  the 
aching  arm  before  the  blank  horizon,  — these  things, 
we  see,  give  optical  results  which  no  social  oculist 
has  distinctly  classified.  For  the  rest,  Ellen  Jane 
Salt  wore  a  navy  blue  calico  dress,  well  fitted  (by 
herself)  to  a  pleasant  figure,  and  tucked  up  over  the 
Mps  under  a  gray  crash  washing  apron,  on  which 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  TUBS.  161 

she  wiped  her  steamed  and  dripping  hands  to  give 
Miss  Ritter  greeting.  There  was  a  strip  of  tourist's 
ruffling  in  the  neck  of  the  navy  blue  calico,  and  the 
house,  like  the  mistress,  was  as  neat  as  a  honey- 
comb. One  might  almost  say,  without  straining  a 
point,  that  there  was  a  certain  poetry  in  her  avoca- 
tion ;  for  Ellen  Jane  Salt's  old  cottage  seemed  to  the 
chance  visitor  a  kind  of  temple  of  cleanliness.  The 
small  kitchen  was  sunny  and  sweet ;  and  despite  the 
disproportion  of  the  ironing-table  and  stove  to  the 
environment,  the  only  litter  seemed  to  be  the  signs 
of  the  presence  of  children,  which  abounded.  Then 
it  must  be  distinctly  understood  that  Mrs.  Salt  had  a 
"  parlor."  What  New-Englander  has  not  ?  Whether 
his  debts  be  paid  or  his  soul  saved  we  need  not  stop 
to  inquire ;  he  will  attend  to  that  presently  ;  mean- 
while, a  parlor  or  die  ! 

In  Mrs.  Salt's  parlor  was  a  carpet  of  a  high-art  pat- 
tern under  reduced  conditions,  —  olive  green,  to  be 
sure,  playing  at  geometry  with  Indian  red,  and  sepia 
brown  and  black ;  it  was  an  excellent  carpet,  and 
protected  by  a  strip  of '  oil-cloth  nailed  across,  like  a 
little  plank  walk,  for  the  children  to  travel  over  to 
the  bedroom  beyond.  There  was  a  new  paper  on  the 
walls  of  the  parlor,  very  clean  and  very  gilt  (olive 
green,  of  course),  and  the  price  per  roll  such  a  trifle 
that  a  codfish  could  afford  it,  as  Mrs.  Salt  had  often 
said  ;  the  paperer  being  Ellen  Jane  herself,  at  mid- 
night, after  a  day's  washing,  when  "  he  "  was  asleep. 

In  the  parlor  were  a  black  haircloth  sofa,  a  cen- 
tre-table with  a  red  cloth,  a  Bible,  a  copy  of  "  The 
Youth's  Companion,"  an  old  "  Harper,"  and  a  pa- 
tent-medicine almanac  ;  a  chromo  called  "  Innocence 


162  THE  MADONNA  OF   THE  TUBS. 

Asleep "  (presented  with  a  pound  of  green  tea,  and 
since  framed  in  gilt),  and  a  framed  photograph  of 
Raf^ ;  but  when  we  come  to  Eafe  — 

Meanwhile,  in  the  parlor  there  was  also  "  an  in- 
strument." Mrs.  Salt  had  privately  meant  it  to  be 
a  piano ;  but  Mr.  Salt  had  a  bad  year  haddocking, 
and  that  overgrown  ambition  was  silently  set  aside. 
At  any  rate,  it  was  an  instrument.  It  did  not  mat- 
ter whether  one  called  it  a  melodeon  or  a  cabinet 
organ,  or  whatever  you  please ;  the  musical  future  of 
the  Salt  family  was  thus  assured.  In  a  narrower 
personal  sense  the  instrument  was  intended  for 
Emma  Eliza,  who  took  music  lessons  in  prosperous 
seasons,  and  played  —  to  Raf fe.  Emma  Eliza  was  the 
oldest  daughter,  and  Eaf^  was  the  youngest  son. 
Mrs.  Salt  had  six  children  —  two  babies.  Rate  was 
a  cripple. 

"  Was  n't  that  Mrs.  Hannibal  P.  Harrowstone 
comin'  up  the  beach  alongside  of  you  ?  "  began  Mrs. 
Salt  promptly.  She  ironed  as  she  talked,  making 
small  ceremony  of  Miss  Ritter,  who  was  an  old  cus- 
tomer, and  regarded  quite  as-  one  of  the  family. 
Mrs.  Salt's  irons  thumped  when  she  was  tired  or  ex- 
cited, though  she  would  have  you  understand  she 
knew  how  to  iron  scientifically  and  silently,  and  no 
fuss  about  it.     To-night  she  thumped  a  good  deal. 

"  She  's  a  good  customer,  Mrs.  Hannibal  P.  Har- 
rowstone. But  there  !  When  I  count  the  yards 
and  yards  on  her  petticoats  —  dollar  a  yard,  every 
mite  of  it  —  and  her  nigh'gownds  solid  [thump] 
valingcens,  you  might  say,  and  them  di'mon's 
[thvimp],  and  beef-tea  for  Rafe  goes  so  fast  at 
twenty-five  cents    a  pound  duriu'  his  spells ;    and 


THE  MADONNA   OF  THE  TUBS.  163 

there !  [thump].  Why,  Miss  Eitter,  I  did  up  one 
dress  for  that  woman  last  week  woukl  ha'  paid  our 
rent  for  a  whole  year,  by  the  Sassinfras  Bitters  Al- 
manac ;  and  Biram  so  sharp  on  his  rent,  too,  luck  or 
none  ;  an'  if  a  man  makes  eighty  dollars  to  his  trip, 
or  eight  cents,  it 's  all  the  same  to  Biram  come  rent- 
day.  But  there!  that's  fishin'.  I  ain't  complainin', 
and  thanks  to  mercy  I  can  stand  at  the  wash-tub 
day  an'  night  for  'em  long 's  there  's  anything  to 
wash.  Six  weeks  ain't  much,  now,  is  it  ?  Pretty 
short  season ;  and  no  more  for  a  woman  to  do  in 
Fairharbor  rest  of  the  year  than  there  is  for  a  clam. 
We  're  like  'em,  I  guess  —  just  stick  in  the  sand  and 
stay  there.  But  there  !  I  ain't  complainin'  either ; 
and  six  children  do  Avant  a  sight  of  things  from 
Janooary  to  Janooary,  as  you  'd  know,  if  you  'd  ever 
had  one  ;  and  Eafe  "  — 

"  Eafe  looks  pale,  I  thought,"  interposed  Miss 
Eitter,  glancing  into  the  "  parlor,"  where  a  little, 
bent  figure  sat  in  a  high,  padded  chair  by  the  win- 
dow. 

The  child  had  a  delicate  face,  refined  by  suffering, 
and  a  singularly  sweet  mouth ;  he  had  long  blond 
hair,  Avhich  fell  over  his  face  as  he  stooped.  There 
were  no  other  children  visible,  except  the  baby, 
asleep  in  the  crib  or  cradle  at  the  little  cripple's 
feet.  Now  and  then  the  boy  jogged  the  cradle  with 
his  foot,  as  he  bent  over  his  work  or  play. 

"  It 's  your  scrap-book,"  said  Mrs.  Salt,  in  a  low 
voice  —  "  that  one  you  gave  him  with  the  chromos 
and  magazines  when  you  come  in  June.  You  never 
see  such  a  sight  of  comfort  as  that  child  gets  out  o' 
them   things  —  bless   your   soul    for   it  I     It 's   the 


16-1  THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  TUBS. 

prettiness  that  pleases  him.  The  boarders  give  him 
money  sometimes,  but  he  don't  pay  the  same  atten- 
tion to  it  —  it  ain't  that,  you  know.  There 's  a  kind 
of  2>^'etf  i7iess  about  Eaffe  —  like  the  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen I  do  for.  He  ain't  like  a  fisherman,  Eaft 
ain't,  and  so  sweet  of  his  temper  in  all  his  spells. 
Now  last  night  never  a  word.  His  father  and  me 
hate  to  see  Eafe  suffer." 

"  I  saw  Henry  on  the  beach  just  now,"  observed 
Miss  Kitter,  backing  up  by  the  stove,  as  she  Avas 
bidden,  to  dry  her  white  flannel  dress  hem  after 
Mrs.  Salt's  professional  treatment  thereof.  The 
young  lady  had  quite  dignity  enough  even  for  this 
awkward  and  exceedingly  warm  position,  and 
seemed  to  fill  the  little  house  with  a  kind  of  splen- 
dor —  distant,  uncomprehending,  accidental  —  like 
that  gift  of  the  scrap-book.  She  thought  too  little 
about  them  to  know  when  she  did  the  right  thing 
by  poor  people,  until  they  told  her.  She  did  not 
mistake  her  taste  for  her  principles,  though  they 
sometimes  might.  "I  saw  Henry,"  said  Miss  E-it- 
ter,  in  her  affable  tone,  that  the  washer-woman  did 
not  always  distinguish  from  personal  friendship, 
"  He  was  going  off  in  the  dory  after  those  Benzine 
children  that  always  get  lost  foggy  days.  I  thought 
he  was  pretty  patient,  though  he  had  to  have  his 
say  about  it.  All  the  children  were  witli  him,  I  be- 
lieve, —  Tom  and  Sue  and  the  bigger  baby  and  the 
rest." 

"There  ain't  any  rest  except  Emma  Eliza,"  cor- 
rected the  mother.  "  Six  is  enough,  gracious  knows 
—  and  she 's  gone  home  with  Mrs.  Hannibal  P.  Har- 
rowstone's  wash,  what   there  is  ready  of  it.     Yes, 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  TUBS.  165 

there 's  that  about  Henry  Salt,  I  will  say ;  he  '11  do 
anything,  but  he  's  got  to  have  his  say.  Him  and 
me  we  have  words  sometimes.  I  'm  always  sorry 
for  it  afterward.  I  never  mean  to.  Pie  says  he 
don't  mean  to  nither.  But  there  !  men-folks  is  men- 
folks,  not  to  say  anything  of  women.  ISTigh  as  I  can 
make  out,  the  Lord  ?nade  men-folks  to  be  contrary  ; 
but  sakes !  if  you  love  'em,  what 's  the  odds  ? 
You  've  only  got  a  bigger  chance  to  do  for  'em,  and 
mother  'em  up.  They  're  a  kind  of  boys,  men  are, 
and  have  to  be  mothered  up  somehow  by  their 
women.  They  need  pettin'  and  fussin'  and  strokin' 
the  right  way,  and  hear  jest  how  they  feel  when 
they  're  a  mite  sick,  and  fuss  over  'em  as  if  you 
s'posed  they  was  dangerous,  and  not  to  say  notliin' 
when  you're  ten  times  worse  yourself  —  that's  men. 
I  don't  say  I  don't  have  my  tempers  out  myself  — 
like  an  influenzy,  got  to  come  —  sometimes.  But 
there  !  I  've  got  a  good  husband,  dear.  Xor  there 
ain't  a  stiddier,  nor  soberer,  nor  better,  goes  to  the 
Banks  from  Fairharbor  year  in,  year  out.  I  'm  very 
fond  of  Henry.  We've  had  a  happj^  life,  me  and 
Henry." 

"  A  happy  life  ?  " 

Miss  Bitter  looked  about  the  fisherman's  cottage  ; 
at  the  small  rooms  crowded  with  the  signs  of  sur- 
plus life  and  harassing  economies  ;  at  the  sober, 
sleeping  baby,  who  seemed  to  have  been  born  in  a 
hard  season,  and  bore  the  inheritance  of  poverty  and 
anxiety  in  the  lines  of  his  unconscious  face  ;  at  the 
crippled  boy  stooping  in  the  window  against  the  dull 
square  of  light  made  by  the  conflict  of  the  fog  and 
dusk  beyond ;  at  the  nervous  motions  of  the  tired 


166  THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  TUBS. 

woman  at  the  ironing-table.  Ellen  Jane  Salt  did 
not  pass  for  a  heroine,  but  she  had  aches  enough  and 
ailments  enough  to  have  put  Miss  Eitter  or  Mrs. 
Hannibal  P.  Harrowstone  under  treatment  from  a 
fashionable  physician  for  the  rest  of  her  life.  Any 
lady  who  felt  as  she  did  would  have  gone  to  bed. 
The  fisherman's  wife  washed  and  ironed  ;  thus  Rafe 
had  beef-tea  —  and  the  instrument.  SomehoAv  even 
the  instrument  did  not  make  the  fisherman's  cottage 
seem  an  abode  of  luxury.  "  I  can  always  sell  it," 
Mrs.  Salt  said,  when  approached  by  good  sociolo- 
gists on  the  subject  of  this  extravagance.  "  It 's 
good  property  ;  it  keeps  the  children  to  home  even- 
ings ;  and  Eafe  — why,  I  got  it  for  EafeJ' 

The  washer-woman  stood  straight  at  her  ironing- 
table,  and  lifted  her  head  as  she  followed  Helen 
Ritter's  look  about  the  cottage,  on  whose  sparse  com- 
forts the  advancing  dusk  was  setting  heavily. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  very  gently,  "  Henry  and  me  have 
had  a  happy  life  —  him  a  fisherman,  me  a  washer- 
woman —  six  children  —  and  Eafe  —  and  poor. 
Well,  there  !  there  's  been  times  poor  don't  saj/  it  — 
and  hard.  It 's  been  pretty  hard.  But  you  see,  my 
dear,  me  and  Henry  like  each  other.  I  suppose  that 
makes  a  difference." 

"  It  must  make  a  difference,"  repeated  Miss  Eitter 
drearily.  She  went  abruptly  into  the  darkening  par- 
lor, kissed  tlie  crippled  child  upon  the  forehead,  said 
some  little  pleasant  thing  to  him,  and  came  restlessly 
back.  Eafe  climbed  down  from  his  high  chair  labo- 
riously, took  up  his  crutch,  and  followed  her.  His 
mother  Avas  lighting  the  kerosene  lamp,  and  the  poor 
place  leaped  suddenly  into  color.    Eafe  pulled  at  the 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  TUBS.  167 

navy  blue  calico  dress.  The  washer-woman  snatched 
off  her  wet  crash  apron,  and  drew  the  little  fellow  — 
alas  !  never  perhaps  to  be  too  big  a  fellow  for  his 
mother's  lap  —  into  her  arms.  The  ironing-table  and 
the  clothes-basket  and  a  wash-tub  of  rinsing  clothes 
closed  into  the  perspective  of  this  plain  picture  ; 
and  Eafe's  crutch,  where  it  had  fallen  in  the  fore- 
ground, reminded  Miss  Eitter  somehow  of  the  staff 
in  the  little  St.  John  scenes  that  we  all  know. 

"  The  Madonna  —  of  the  Tubs,"  she  murmured. 

"  What,  ma'am  ?  "  asked  Rafe. 

"  There !  there ! "  said  the  Madonna ;  "  go  and 
watch  for  father,  Rafe."  She  handed  him  his  crutch 
with  her  kiss  —  a  half-savage  kiss,  like  that  of  some 
wild,  thwarted  maternal  thing  —  and  the  child 
limped  eagerly  away. 

"  He  must  have  found  them  Benzine  children  by 
this  time,"  ^Mrs.  Salt  ran  on,  taking  to  her  irons  again 
nervously.  "But,  fact  is,  I'm  never  easy  in  my 
mind  when  Henry  's  in  thick  weather,  not  even  off- 
shore. It 's  hard  being  a  woman  in  Fairharbor.  Our 
minister  said,  says  he,  when  he  first  come  to  town 
he  noticed  all  the  women-folks  called  it  '  the  dread- 
ful sea.'  I  guess,  come  to  think  of  it,  we  do  —  jest 
as  you  'd  say  '  Monday  mornin', '  or  '  cold  weather,' 
and  never  take  notice  of  your  words.  You  see,  I  'm 
kind  o'  down  to-night,  tell  the  truth,  Miss  Ritter. — 
Yes,  Rafe,  watch  for  papa,  dear.  He'll  be  disap- 
pointed if  he  does  n't  see  Rafe  first.  —  I  would  n't 
tell  the  child  just  yet.  You  see,  his  father 's  got  to 
go  to  the  Banks.  Rafe  hates  to  have  his  father  go  to 
the  Banks.  He  worries.  We  thought  we  'd  get  along, 
—  for    me    and  Rafe  do  worry  so,  —  but   Henry's 


168  THE  MADONNA   OF  THE  TUBS. 

had  an  awful  poor  season  off-shore.  He  thinks 
he 's  got  to  go.  He  ain't  made  but  twenty-two 
dollars  and  sixty-three  cents  this  summer.  It 's 
safer  off-shore,  take  it  all,  though  it 's  bad  enough, 
Miss  Eitter,  fix  it  as  you  will.  It  was  oft'-shore  his 
boat  keeled  over,  eight  years  ago  the  23d  of  Septem- 
ber, not  more  'n  two  miles  off  the  light  —  him  and 
Job  Ely  and  Peter  Salt  and  William  X.  Salt  went 
down  in  a  squall,  and  I  'd  been  nervous  all  day ;  so 
when  it  struck  I  got  the  glass,  and  took  Emma 
Eliza  —  for  she  was  little  then,  but  my  oldest  born, 
and  all  I  had  to  speak  to  that  would  understand  — 
and  me  and  Emma  Eliza  we  walked  over  the  downs, 
and  over  the  downs,  blowed  about  agen  the  wind, 
with  the  glass,  and  stood  watchin' ;  and,  my  gracious 
God,  Miss  Eitter,  I  saw  that  there  boat  go  down  be- 
fore my  livin'  eyes  !  " 

It  was  an  old  story,  told  to  how  many  neighbors 
and  "  summer  people  "  how  many  times  !  but  at  this 
point  the  fisherman's  wife  gasped  and  blanched. 
She  had  never  been  able  to  finish  it ;  each  time  she 
thought  she  should.  She  took  up  her  flat-irons  has- 
tily, for  scalding  tears  were  dropping  on  Mrs.  Hanni- 
bal P.  Harrowstone's  fluted  skirt. 

"  He  h'isted  on  to  the  keel,  her  bottom  upmost," 
she  said,  in  a  lower  voice,  "  and  they  all  h'isted  on 
and  held,  and  a  lumber  schooner  from  Maine  come 
along  full  canvas,  but  it  took  an  eternal  punishment, 
lookin'  through  the  glass,  to  get  her  swung  to  and 
dory  off.  But  they  was  saved  —  him  and  Job  Ely 
and  Peter  Salt  and  William  X.  Salt  —  and  him  ;  but 
they  looked  like   flies  before  my  eyes,  for  the  sea 


THE  MADONNA   OF  THE  TUBS.  169 

broke  over  'em,  and  they  kep'  a-slippin',  and  so  me 
and  Emma  Eliza  put  down  the  glass  and  come  home 
and  set  down ;  and  Emma  Eliza  made  me  a  cup  of 
tea  —  for  I  was  that  gone,  and  her  so  little  to  do  for 
me.  And  there  we  set,  for  we  could  n't  do  nothin' 
till  he  come  home  at  five  minutes  past  nine  o'clock, 
bustin'  open  the  door  —  so  !  —  drippin'  wet,  and  pale 
as  his  own  corpse,  and  I  says,  '  Henry !  Henry ! ' 
and  he  says,  '  Nelly  Jane  ! '  and  we  says  no  more,  for 
someways  we  could  n't  do  it.    But  Emma  Eliza  cried 

—  for  she  used  to  bellow,  that  child  did,  when  she 
was  little  —  enough  to  wake  last  year's  mackerel 
catch,  and  then  she  made  her  father's  tea,  for  I  was 
that  gone ;  and  you  see.  Miss  Eitter,  it  was  next 
month  Eafe  was  born,  and  lie  was  born,  my  dear  — 
as  he  is." 

"  Marm,  I  don't  see  my  fa — ther,"  interrupted 
Rafe,  in  his  gentle,  drawling  voice,  from  the  open 
front  door. 

"  And  so,  as  I  says,"  proceeded  Mrs.  Salt,  more 
briskly,  "fishin'  is  fishin',  off-shore  or  no.  But  I 
have  n't  no  confidence  in  the  Grand  Banks.  I  wish 
my  husband  had  n't  got  to  go  this  fall.  I  ain't  any 
time  to  be  nervous,  but  there  's  always  time  to  see 
things.  You  know,  you  see  him  so,  before  your 
eyes,  all  sorts  of  ways,  when  he 's  that  far  from  you 

—  fogs,  or  a  gale,  or  a  squall  —  drownin'  mostly,  and 
callin'  after  you,  if  you're  his  wife  and  have  always 
done  for  him.  Even  a  headache  he  'd  run  to  you 
about.  And  to  stand  here  ironin',  a  thousand  miles 
away,  and  him  maybe  "  — 

"  Marm,"  called  E-afe,  "  I  see  my  fa — ther !  I 
see  my  fa — ther !  " 


170     THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  TUBS. 

"  Well,  there  !  "  cried  Ellen  Jane  Salt,  putting 
down  her  irons  tremendously.  She  blushed  like  a 
girl,  and  bustled  about,  "  picking  up "  here  and 
there,  and  hurrying  to  fry  the  cod  for  supper. 
She  almost  forgot  her  young  lady  customer,  who 
was  glad  just  then  to  slip  away. 

On  the  way  down  the  lane  she  met  the  fisherman 
amd  his  children  hurrying  home ;  but  in  the  dusk 
they  passed  with  a  pleasant,  neighborly  nod.  Miss 
Ritter  was  sad,  and  Henry  Salt  was  hungry ;  so  she 
with  her  kindly  "  Well,  Henry  ! "  and  he  with  his 
civil  "  H'  are  yer,  INtiss  Eitter  ?  "  went  their  ways. 
It  so  happened  from  one  trifling  cause  and  another 
—  she  was  called  to  Boston  earlier  than  usual,  and 
what  not  —  that  this  was  the  last  time  she  spoke  to 
the  good  fellow  that  season,  as  she  afterw^ard  re- 
membered. 

She  turned  in  the  dark  lane,  and  watched  the 
group  scrambling  home  in  their  happy-go-lucky 
fashion  —  Henry  rode  the  bigger  baby  (he  was 
known  in  the  Salt  family  as  "  the  other  baby ") 
pigback  all  the  way ;  Sue  and  Tommy  trudged  and 
toddled,  snatching  at  his  oil-clothes,  which  were  wet 
and  slipped  from  their  little  round  red  hands. 

Henry  Salt  sang,  as  he  carried  "  the  other  baby," 
a  snatch  of  a  sailor's  song  Miss  Eitter  had  never 
heard  before :  — 

"  Give  the  wind  time 

To  blow  the  nian  down." 

Past  the  rose  thicket,  by  the  great  bowlder,  dim, 
in  the  dark  and  the  now  drenching  fog,  man  and 
children,  pushing  merrilj^  home,  made  one  confused 
group,  like  a  centaur  or  a  torso  to  the  watcher's  eye. 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  TUBS.  Ill 

The  cottage  door  was  wide  open.  What  a  splen- 
dor of  light  leaped  out  !  Was  it  only  that  kerosene 
lamp  upon  the  ironing-table  ?  How  it  beat  back 
the  crawling  fog,  which  made  as  if  it  would  enter 
first,  and  was  denied. 

"  Give  the  wind  time," 

rang  the  fisherman's  happy  bass. 

From  outside,  through  the  door,  one  could  see 
clearly  and  far.  All  the  little  house  seemed  to  lean 
out  to  draw  them  in  ;  the  sweet,  tid}- ,  homely  things 
grew  gilded  and  glorious,  and  had  a  look  as  if  they 
stirred ;  even  the  instrument  could  be  seen  deep  in 
the  parlor,  with  the  reduced  high-art  paper.  In  the 
doorway,  once  again,  the  Madonna  of  the  Tubs  had 
found  that  fine,  unconscious  attitude  —  half  stoop- 
ing to  take  Eafe,  who  had  stood  too  long  upon  his 
little  crutch.  He  put  up  his  hand  and  stroked  her 
cheek. 

"  Oh,  marm,  I  've  f/ot  my  fa — ther  ! " 

"  Give  the  wind  time 

To  blow  the  man  down," 

sang  Henry  Salt.  Laughing,  he  snatched  and 
kissed  the  child  —  the  mother  too,  perhaps.  Down 
there  in  the  dark  wet  lane  Miss  Eitter  could  not  see, 
or  her  eyes  failed  her  somehow. 

For  a  moment  the  group  stood  in  the  open  door  in 
a  kind  of  glory.  Then  Emma  Eliza  came  in,  and, 
putting  down  her  empty  clothes-basket,  and  going 
straight  to  the  instrument,  began  —  it  seemed  that 
Eafe  asked  —  to  play.  A  waltz,  perhaps  ?  A  min- 
strel melody  ?  Some  polka  learned  of  the  music- 
teacher  ?     A  merry  ditty  flung  at  fate  and  dashed 


172     THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  TUBS. 

at  life  and  death,  between  whose  equal  mysteries 
these  poor  souls  wrenched  their  brave  and  scanty 
happiness  ?  My  musical  friend  —  no.  Emma  Eliza 
sang  a  hymn.  She  sang  that  venerable  Sunday- 
school  jingle  known  as  "  Pull  for  the  Shore." 

Rafe  joined  in  it  sweetly,  leaning  on  his  crutch. 
His  mother  sang  it  shrilly  while  she  fried  the  cod. 
Henry  Salt  sang  it  merrily  while  he  hung  his  oil- 
clothes  on  the  nail  behind  the  door.  Sue  and 
Tommy  and  the  other  baby  sang  it  anyhow ;  and 
the  baby  in  the  crib  waked  up  and  stretched  his 
arms  out  to  the  instrument. 

"  Pull  for  the  shore,  sailor,  pull  for  the  shore  ! 
Heed  not  the  rolling  waves,  but  bend  to  the  oar ! 
Pull  for  the  shore,  sailor,  pull  for  the  shore  !  " 

Then  the  dcor  shut  suddenly  ;  the  Madonna  was 
blotted  from  sight;  blackness  replaced  the  sweet 
and  homely  halo ;  only  the  voices  of  the  fisher-peo- 
ple, expressing  what  they  knew  of  happiness  in  the 
sombre,  sacred  words  that  held  the  terror  and  the 
danger  of  the  sea,  echoed  faintly  down  the  dark  and 
now  deserted  lane. 

"  If  this  were  a  story  in  need  of  a  heroine,"  said 
Helen  Ritter  as  she  turned,  "  it  is  a  vacant  position 
which  I  should  not  be  asked  to  fill.  And  yet  I  'd 
be  my  washer-woman  to  be  "  — 

"  Give  the  wind  time 

To  blow  for  the  shore." 

rang  out  the  gruff  bass  voice  that  wind  and  weather 
had  roughened  in  shouting  "  Ship  ahoy ! "  For 
Henry  had  musically  forgotten  himself,  as  will  be 
seen,  and  Emma  Eliza,  at  the  instrument,  came  to  a 
severe  halt  to  set  him  straight. 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  TUBS.  173 

Perhaps  if  it  had  not  been  for  William  X.  Salt  it 
would  never  have  happened. 

Tennyson,  I  think,  or  it  might  well  be,  has  sketched 
a  seaport  town  in  one  line  which  runs  :  — 

"  And  almost  all  the  village  had  one  name." 

The  fishing  town  of  Fairharbor  was  generously  fur- 
nished with  the  appropriate  name  of  Salt.  There 
were  great  Salts  and  small  Salts,  rich  and  poor  Salts, 
drunk  and  sober  Salts,  Salts  making  money  in  the 
counting-rooms  and  Salts  earning  it  upon  the  wharves, 
Salts  in  the  fish  firms  and  Salts  before  the  mast  — 
Abraham  L.  Salt,  for  instance,  who  owned  the 
schooner  (herself  Abby  E,  Salt  by  name),  and  Wil- 
liam X.  Salt  and  Peter  Salt  and  Henry  Salt,  who 
sailed  in  her  to  the  Grand  Banks,  after  the  golden- 
rod  and  the  summer  people  were  gone,  when  there 
were  no  Japanese  umbrellas,  and  nobody  screamed 
at  the  snails,  when  there  was  no  washing  by  the 
dozen  to  be  had,  and  only  now  and  then  a  letter  from 
Miss  Kitter  —  in  November,  just  before  Thanksgiv- 
ing, when  the  weather  had  turned  cold  and  the  wind 
blew  from  the  north. 

Nothing  is  easier  than  to  find  a  reason  for  the  un- 
pleasant in  ourselves  in  causes  outside  of  ourselves, 
and  yet,  in  spite  of  this  calm,  proverbial  philosophy, 
it  is  probably  true  that  if  it  had  not  been  for  William 
X.  Salt  it  would  never  have  happened.  At  least 
Ellen  Jane  said  so,  and  will  say  so  to  her  dying  day. 
For  from  whatever  cause  —  divine,  diabolic,  or  hu- 
man—  whether  because  William  X.  Salt  treated 
Henry,  or  because   Henry  allowed  AVilliam   X.    to 


174      THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  TUBS. 

treat  liim,  or  because  Heaven  permitted  or  hell  de- 
creed —  the  truth  remains  that  Henry  and  Ellen  Jane 
Salt,  like  many  another  wedded  pair  loving  less  than 
they,  like  many  another  loving  even  more  than  the}^, 
quarreled;  but  the  worst  of  it  was  that  they  quar- 
reled the  night  that  Henry  set  sail  in  the  Abby  E. 
Salt,  with  William  X.  and  Peter  and  Job  Ely  and 
the  other  fellows  —  ten  in  all,  for  the  Grand  Banks 
of  Newfoundland. 

William  X.  Salt  had  given  him  the  whiskey,  for, 
as  I  say,  it  was  turning  cold,  and  the  wind  blew  bit- 
terly from  the  north,  and  the  men  had  worked  till 
they  were  fretted  and  chilled,  getting  their  traps  and 
trawls  aboard.  Now  Henry  was  a  sober  man,  for  the 
most  part,  and  meant  to  keep  so  ;  or  his  wife  meant 
to  keep  him  so,  which  is  much  the  same  thing ;  and 
I  should  libel  him  were  I  to  say  that  he  came  home 
to  supper  drunk.  He  was  not  drunk.  Strictly 
speaking,  he  was  not  sober.  In  point  of  fact,  he 
was  what  may  be  charitably  called  sensitive  to  liq- 
uor, owing  to  some  passing  familiarity  of  the  nervous 
system  with  its  effects  in  early  youth  ;  and  it  took 
little  enough  to  make  it  clear  that  he  had  better  have 
taken  none  at  all.  As  a  rule,  Henry  recognized  this 
physiological  fact.  That  November  night  he  Avas 
cold  and  tired  and  "  down,"  and  William  X._,  who 
was  sober  sometimes,  but  so  seldom  that,  b}'  the  law 
of  chances,  this  could  hardly  have  been  one  of  the 
times,  was  moved  to  treat  at  the  wrong  moment  or 
in  the  wrong  way  ;  and  if  Henry  had  taken  a  little 
less,  or  even  a  little  more,  and  come  home  to  his 
wife  drunk,  it  might  not  have  happened,  we  must 
admit,  for  he  was  jolly  and  silly  when  he  was  drunk  j 


THE  MADONNA   OF  THE  TUBS.  175 

but  he  got  only  so  far  as  the  cross  stage,  and  cross  he 
was  —  it  need  not  be  denied  —  to  Ellen  Jane. 

What  was  it  all  about  ?  What  is  it  ever  all  about, 
when  tAvo  Avho  love  each  other  dearer  than  any  great 
thing  on  earth  fall  sharp  asunder. because  of  some 
little  one  —  too  little  to  find  ?  The  pity  of  love  is 
that  it  is  given  to  small  creatures  :  let  us  not  forget 
that  itself  is  great. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  door  that  slammed ;  perhaps  it 
was  the  coffee  that  did  not  settle ;  it  may  be  that 
the  baby  cried,  or  the  chowder  burned  their  tongues, 
or  somebody  upset  the  milk  pitcher,  or  the  lamp 
smoked,  or  the  ironing  fire  was  burning  coal  too  fast, 
or  the  barberry  sauce  (brought  out  to  honor  the  occa- 
sion) had  not  enough  molasses  in  it,  or  the  griddle- 
cakes  did  not  come  fast  enough,  or  there  was  a  draught 
somewhere  —  who  could  say  ?  jSTeither  of  these  mar- 
ried lovers,  perhaps,  after  it  was  all  over.  Less  than 
any  one  of  these  almost  invisible  causes  has  broken 
hearts  and  homes  before,  and  will,  world  without 
end,  till  lovers  learn  the  infinite  preciousness  of 
love,  and  human  speech  is  guarded  like  human  chas- 
tity. 

In  short,  then  and  there,  on  the  night,  on  the 
hour  of  their  separation,  Henry  and  Ellen  Jane  Salt 
"  came  to  words." 

She  had  been  crying  all  day,  poor  woman,  because 
he  had  to  go.  She  dreaded  a  November  voyage  in- 
telligently and  insanely.  Eafe  had  cried  too,  but  he 
hid  in  the  parlor  to  do  it.  The  children  were  all 
sober  except  the  baby  and  the  other  baby.  The 
house  was   illuminated  —  there  were  two  kerosene 


176  THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  TUBS. 

lamps  and  the  lantern.  All  Henry's  mending  was 
tearfully  and  exquisitely  done.  There  had  been  fresh 
doughnuts  fried,  and  a  squash  pie  (extravagantly) 
made  to  please  him.  Emma  Eliza,  at  the  instrument, 
played  the  "  Sweet  By-and-by."  Her  mother  was 
dressed  in  her  best  calico,  —  a  new  one  never  at  the 
wash-tub,  one  of  those  chocolate  patterns  with 
strong-minded  flowers  that  women  fancy.  Heaven 
and  the  designers  know  why.  Her  hair  was  brushed 
and  her  collar  fresh,  and  she  had  looked  as  pretty  as 
a  pink,  poor  thing,  dashing  away  the  tears  when  he 
came  in ;  ready  for  all  the  little  feminine  arts  that 
make  men  cheerful  at  the  cost  of  women's  nerve  and 
courage. 

Then  it  happened,  —  whatever  it  was,  —  and  the 
glow  went  out  of  her  face  as  the  gloom  gathered  on 
his,  and  that  sweet  look  about  her  mouth  settled 
away,  and  the  smouldering  fire  burned  up  slowly 
from  a  great  depth  in  her  sunken,  tired  blue  eyes ; 
and  with  a  breaking  heart  she  blamed  him ;  and 
with  a  barbarous  tongue  he  admired  her ;  and  their 
words  ran  as  high  as  their  nerves  were  strained ; 
and  because  they  loved  each  other  dearly  every 
harsh  word  they  said  scorched  them  like  coals  of 
white  fire,  on  which  one  pours  more  to  cover  up 
the  blaze ;  and  because  they  were  man  and  wife,  and 
more  to  each  other  than  all  the  world  besides,  they 
said,  each  to  each,  bitterly  dashing  out  blind  words, 
what  neither  would  have  said  to  friend  or  neighbor 
for  very  shame's  sake  ;  and  so  it  came  about  that  on 
this  night  they  were  in  high  temper,  than  Avhich 
none  had  been  really  sharper,  perhaps,  in  all  their 
wedded  lives. 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  TUBS.  177 

"There  is  something  always  wrong  about  this 
house,  curse  it !  "  cried  the  man  whom  William  X. 
Salt  had  treated. 

"  There  's  nothing  wrong  in  this  house  but  him 
that 's  setting  sail  from  it,"  cried  the  woman  whom 
the  man  had  scolded. 

They  were  flashing  words,  —  up  and  out  and  over, 

—  and,  had  it  fared  differently  with  them,  at  an- 
other time  a  sob  and  a  kiss  would  have  met  above 
the  ashes  of  the  sorry  scene,  and  there  would  have 
been  an  end,  and  peace  to  it. 

But  the  Abby  E.  Salt  weighed  anchor  at  eight 
o'clock.  It  was  quarter  past  seven  when  Henry 
pushed  back  from  the  half-eaten  supper,  and  took  up 
his  old  hat  to  go.  He  had  over  a  mile  to  walk,  and 
a  ferry  to  catch,  and  Avhat  not  to  do  ,  he  was  already 
late.  There  was  no  time  to  let  the  sweet  waters  of 
repentance  come  to  the  flood.  He  bade  the  children 
good-by  sullenly,  kissed  Eafe,  and,  after  an  instant's 
hesitation,  pushed  open  the  door.  He  said  he  must 
hunt  up  Job  Ely,  and  so  saying,  and  saying  no  more 
than  this,  he  went  out  of  the  house.  He  did  not 
look  at  his  wife. 

Her  pretty,  weary  face  had  flushed  a  dangerous 
scarlet  during  the  scene  which  had  passed.  Now  it 
turned  a  dreadful  white.  She  stood  quite  still.  She 
seemed  to  have  no  more  moral  power  to  move  after 
the  man  than  an  unsought  girl  or  a  woman  repulsed. 
Her  whole  feminine  nature  was  quivering  pitifully. 
When  a  man  is  rough  with  a  woman  he  forgets  that 
he  hurts  two  creatures,  —  the  human  and  the  woman, 

—  and  that  he  hurts  the  second  more  than  it  can 
hurt  himself  by  just  so  much  as  the  essence  of  the 


178  THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  TUBS. 

feminine  nature  is  a  fact  superimposed  upon  the 
human.  But  as  the  mystery  of  this  knowledge  is 
one  that  princes  and  philosophers  have  not  yet  com- 
manded, who  should  expect  it  of  the  fisherman 
Henry  Salt  ? 

The  children  during  this  unhappy  scene  had  stood 
silent.  To  their  father's  quickness  of  temper  they 
■were  used ;  he  scolded  one  minute  and  kissed  the 
next ;  but  the  usual  had  become  the  unexpected,  and 
a  kind  of  moral  embarrassment  filled  the  cottage. 
The  baby  and  the  other  baby  began  to  cry ;  Emma 
Eliza,  Avhether  from  some  rudimentary  idea  of  call- 
ing her  father's  attention,  or  from  some  daughterly 
delicacy  which  led  her  to  get  herself  out  of  the  way, 
sat  down  at  the  instrument  and  vigorously  played 
"  Pull  for  the  Shore  "  on  the  wrong  key  ;  Kafe  got 
up  on  his  crutch  and  hobbled  to  the  door ;  the  wife 
alone  stood  quite  still. 

The  wind  was  rising  fiercely  from  the  north,  as 
has  been  said,  and  bursting  in  at  the  open  door, 
caught  it  and  clutched  it  to  and  fro,  closing  but  not 
latching,  and  noisily  playing  with  it,  as  if  -with  a 
shaken  mood  that  could  not  fix  itself.  For  the  in- 
stant, the  master  of  the  house  seemed  to  be  shut  out, 
and  seemed  possibly  to  one  outside  to  have  been 
slavimed  out  by  hands  within. 

"  Let  me  by,  Eafe  ;  let  me  by,  this  minute  ! "  The 
"wife  made  one  bound,  and  down  the  wooden  steps, 
where  she  stood  bewildered.  No  one  was  to  be  seen. 
It  was  deadly  dark,  and  the  wind  raved  Avith  a  vol- 
ume of  sound  which  seemed  to  the  Eairharbor  woman, 
born  and  nourished  of  the  blast,  to  be  something  in- 
telligent and  infernal  pitted  against  her.     She  flung 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  TUBS.  179 

her  shrill  voice  out  into  it :  "  Henry  !  Henry  !  come 
back  and  say  good-by  to  me.  I  'ni  sorry.  Henry  ! 
Henry  !  Henri/  !  I  'm  sorry  !  I  'm  sorry  !  " 

But  only  the  awful  throat  of  the  gale  made  an- 
swer. She  ran  a  little  way,  straining  her  ears,  her 
eyes,  her  voice,  beating  her  breast  in  a  kind  of 
frenzy,  calling  passionately,  plaintively,  then  pas- 
sionately again ;  and  so,  despairing,  for  she  made 
no  headway  against  the  roar  of  the  ISTovember  nor'- 
wester,  staggered,  turned,  and  stopped. 

At  this  moment,  scrambling  through  the  dark,  a 
little  figure  hit  her,  hurrying  by  upon  a  little  crutch. 

"  I  'm  goin'  to  catch  my  fa — ther,"  said  Rafe. 

He  pushed  on  beyond  her,  his  bright  hair  blown 
straight  like  a  helmet  or  visor  of  gold  from  his  fore- 
head, calling  as  he  went,  slipping,  daring,  tumbling 
on  the  sharp  rocks,  and  up  again.  Down  there  in 
the  dark,  midway  of  the  road  she  saw  a  little  fellow 
stop  to  gather  strength  and  throw  the  whole  force  of 
his  sweet  young  voice  like  a  challenge  to  the  gale  :  — 

'^  Fa — ther !  marni  's  sorry  !  (Don't  you  cry,  marm. 
I  think  he  '11  answer.)  Fa — ther  !  Fa — ther  I  marm 
says  she  's  sorry  !  Marm  is  sorry,  fa — ther !  (Just 
keep  still,  marm.     I  'm  sure  he  '11  answer.)     Fa — ■ 

THER  !    MARM  IS  SORRY  !  " 

The  crippled  child  hurled  the  whole  of  his  little 
soul  and  body  into  that  last  cry,  and  then  she  saw 
him  turn  and  limp,  more  slowly,  back.  He  came  up 
to  her  gently  where  she  stood  sobbing  in  the  dark 
and  wind ;  and  as  if  he  had  been  the  parent,  one 
might  say,  and  she  the  child,  he  patted  her  upon  the 
hand. 

"  I  told  you  I  'd  catch  him,  marm  —  dear  marm," 
added  Eafe. 


180  THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  TUBS. 

She  shook  her  head  incredulously,  convidsive  with 
her  tears,  turning  drearily  to  go  back.  She  hardly 
noticed  Rafe  in  that  minute.  The  wife  was  older 
than  the  mother  iu  her  ;  if  stronger,  who  should  say 
her  nay  ? 

"  But  I  caught  my  fa — ther,"  persisted  Eafe.  "  He 
says,  says  he  "  — 

"  Eafe,  he  could  n't,  dear." 

"  Marm,  he  hollered,  '  So  be  I.' " 

"  Did  your  father  say  that,  honest,  Rafe  ?  " 

She  lifted  her  head  joiteously,  pleadingly,  before 
the  child. 

"  I  think  he  did,"  said  Raf6,  conscientiously.  "  I 
says,  'Fa — ther,  marm 's  sorry';  and  he  says,  'So 
be  I.' " 

"  If  he  says,  '  So  be  I,'  God  bless  you,  Rafe ! 
mother's  sonny  boy." 

But  with  that  she  began  to  sob  afresh,  half  with 
hope  and  half  with  miser}'.  The  child,  whose  sym- 
pathies were  made  old  and  fine  by  suffering,  watched 
her  soberly. 

"  I  think  he  did,"  said  Rafe  stoutly.  "  I  think 
my  fa — ther  hollered,  '  So  be  I.'  " 

He  lifted  the  truthful  face  of  an  angel  in  a  halo 
to  the  poor  Madonna  in  the  glimmer  of  the  open 
door.  His  yellow  hair  shone  like  an  aureole  about 
his  ardent  little  face.  He  would  have  given  his 
scrap-book  just  then  to  say,  "  I  know  he  did."  But 
Rafe  never  lied.  The  other  children  supposed  it 
was  because  he  was  a  crijjple. 

It  was  in  just  eloven  da-js  that  they  brought  her 
the  news.     Abraham  L.  Salt  asked  Biram  to  tell  her, 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  TUBS.  181 

and  Biram  sent  a  woman  neighbor.  The  north- 
wester had  blown  grandly,  as  any  one  might  know, 
straight  for  the  Banks,  and  bloAvn  the  Abby  E.  Salt 
thither  in  a  smart  voyage  of  four  days  and  a  half. 
After  the  steady  blow  the  weather  thickened,  and 
that  which  has  happened  to  Fairharbor  fishermen, 
and  will  happen  again,  God  help  them  !  till  the  way 
of  the  wind  and  wave  is  tamed  to  human  anguish, 
happened  then  and  there  to  Henry  Salt.  The  Zeph- 
aniah  Salt,  a  fine  schooner,  about  returning  from  the 
fishing-grounds,  carried  the  word  to  the  telegraph  at 
Boston,  and  the  telegraph  to  Abraham  L.  Salt,  as 
was  said ;  he  to  Biram,  Biram  to  the  woman  neigh- 
bor, the  woman,  praying  God's  pity,  to  her. 

She  did  not  say  it  as  she  meant  to.  Who  of  us 
does  hard  things  as  we  thought  we  should?  She 
walked  straight  into  the  cottage,  and  stood  still  in 
the  middle  of  the  floor,  and  began  to  cry.  The  first 
she  knew  she  had  caught  the  little  crippled  child 
and  put  him  into  his  mother's  arms,  and  said,  — 

"  Rafe,  tell  your  poor  marm  that  your  father 's 
drownded  —  for  I  can't." 

"  At  the  Grand  Banks,  on  the  morning  of  Novem- 
ber — ,  Henry  Salt  and  Job  Ely,  of  Fairharbor,  dory- 
mates,  set  out  from  the  schooner  Abby  E.  Salt  to 
look  after  their  trawls,  and  were  lost  in  the  fog. 
Every  effort  was  made  in  vain  to  find  the  unfortu- 
nate men.  Xo  hope  is  any  longer  felt  of  their 
safety.  The  bodies  have  not  been  recovered.  Salt 
leaves  a  wife  and  six  children.  Ely  was  unmarried. 
The  Abby  E.  Salt  belongs  to  the  well-known  firm  of 
Abraham  L.  Salt  &  Co.,  of  Fairharbor." 


182  THE  MADO^UfA   OF  THE  TUBS. 

Miss  Kitter,  idly  nibbling  at  her  "  Daily  Adver- 
tiser "  before  her  open  cannel  fire  one  bleak  Decem- 
ber morning,  chanced  upon  the  paragraph,  which 
she  re-read  and  pondered  long.  Ellen  Jane  had  sent 
no  word  out  of  her  misery,  poor  thing !  A  letter 
achieved  is  an  affliction  to  the  unlearned,  and  she 
had  enough  to  bear  without  adding  that. 

"  I  'd  rather  do  a  day's  washing  any  time  than 
write  a  letter,"  she  used  to  say.  Besides,  after  all, 
what  would  the  "boarder  lady"  care?  When  it 
came  to  the  point  of  bereavement,  remorse,  widow- 
hood, hunger,  cold,  and  despair,  the  summer  patron 
seemed  as  far  from  the  Fairharbor  winter  as  her 
paper  parasol  or  her  "  valingcens."  Henry  Salt  had 
gone  the  way  of  his  calling,  like  other  men  ;  he  had 
become  one  of  the  one  or  two  hundred  Fairharbor 
fishermen  over  whose  fate  a  comfortable  dry-shod 
world  heaves  a  sigh  once  a  year,  when  the  winter 
gales  blow  so  hard  as  to  shake  the  posts  of  the  firm, 
warm  house  a  little,  or  even  to  puff  the  lace  above 
the  sleeping  baby's  crib  in  the  curtained,  fire-lit 
room.  His  wife,  like  other  women,  was  a  "  Fair- 
harbor  widow,"  and,  like  other  women,  must  bend  her 
to  her  fate. 

She  bowed  to  it  in  those  first  weeks  in  a  stupe- 
faction that  resembled  moral  catalepsy.  A  reserve 
such  as  restrains  the  hand  that  writes  this  page  — 
a  page  like  a  bridge  over  a  chasm  down  which  one 
cannot  look,  yet  over  which  one  must  cross  per- 
force —  solemnly  enwrapped  the  fisherman's  widow 
in  that  space  between  the  night  when  the  woman 
neighbor  put  the  crippled  child  into  his  mother's 
arms,  and  the  advance  of  the  holidays,  which  come 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  TUBS.  183 

—  God  help  us  !  —  straight  into  the  ruined  as  once 
into  the  blessed  homes. 

And  so  to  Fairharbor  as  to  Beacon  Street,  to 
Ellen  Salt  as  to  Helen  Eitter,  or  you  or  me,  the  sa- 
cred time  which  enhances  all  happiness  and  all  an- 
guish came  gently  or  cruelly,  but  surely,  on  ;  and  it 
was  the  day  before  Christmas,  and  going  to  snow. 

In  the  sad  cottage  behind  the  leafless  rose  thicket 
and  under  the  ice-clad  bowlders  they  were  all  at 
home  early  that  afternoon :  the  mother  from  her 
dreary  attempt  and  failure  to  find  another  neighbor 
to  "  wash  "  on  Monday  morning ;  Emma  Eliza  from 
the  net  factory,  where  she  wove  seines  and  ham- 
mocks (when  the  factory  was  running)  at  irregular 
wages,  ranging  from  four  dollars  a  week  to  none  ; 
Tommy  and  Sue  from  the  district  school,  where  one 
must  have  "  an  education,"  even  if  no  father  and  no 
dinner.  Eafe  took  care  of  the  baby  and  the  other 
baby,  and  was,  so  to  speak,  professionally  at  home. 
Besides,  Eafe  himself  (indeed,  I  might  say  Eafe  in. 
particular)  was  about  to  become  the  support  of  the 
family.  As  luck  would  have  it  —  or  as  God  v/illed 
it  —  a  group  of  marine  artists  had  discovered  Fair- 
harbor  that  year,  and  were  wintering,  by  the  mercies 
of  Providence  and  the  landlady,  in  the  closed  hotel, 
hard  at  work  ;  among  them  one,  a  portrait  and  genre 
painter,  guest  of  the  little  company  for  a  week  or 
so,  had  seen  Eafe  at  a  window  one  day,  and,  presto  ! 
the  child's  face — a  cherub  strayed  from  Paradise 
into  misfortune,  the  fellows  said  —  shall  go  to  the 
exhibition. 

Eafe   was  earning  what   occurred   to  him   as  an 


184      THE  MADONNA   OF  THE  TUBS. 

enormous  salary,  as  a  model  by  the  hour ;  he  failed 
to  see  why  Sue  had  no  rubbers  or  Tommy  no  coat, 
or  "vvhy  the  kitchen  fire  burned  so  cold,  or  there  was 
no  meat  for  dinner,  in  view  of  his  monetary  receipts. 
He  had  often  told  his  mother  that  he  would  support 
her,  and  begged  her  not  to  cry.  It  did  not  strike 
him  that  he  had  never  seen  her  cry  since  his  father 
died. 

As  Christmas  Eve  drew  on,  they  were  all  well  in 
the  house.  Emma  Eliza  drew  the  curtains  fast,  for 
the  hard  and  bitter  air  must  melt  into  snow  from 
very  force  of  resistance  to  its  fate,  now  any  moment, 
and  the  house  was  cold.  Rafe  asked  her  to  leave 
one  of  the  kitchen  curtains  up  a  little  ;  he  had  a 
fancy  for  looking  out  on  dark  nights  ;  he  used  to 
stand  so,  sometimes  crooning  and  singing  to  himself, 
his  bright  hair  pressed  against  the  window-pane, 
and  his  thin  hands  up  against  his  temples.  Before 
his  father  died,  Eafe  sang  "  Pull  for  the  Shore  "  a 
great  deal,  standing  by  that  window  looking  out ; 
sometimes  Emma  Eliza  would  catch  it  up  upon  the 
instrument  and  join.  But  he  did  not  sing  it  any 
more. 

The  outside  door  did  not  latch,  —  the  one  that 
slammed  poor  Henry  out  on  that  last  night ;  it 
never  latched  very  well ;  there  was  no  man  to  fix 
it  now ;  a  carpenter  could  not  be  afforded ;  the 
women  and  children  had  tinkered  away  at  the  fasten- 
ing, in  their  blundering  fashion,  with  blinding  tears. 
Such  are  the  cruel  small  ways  in  which  the  poor  are 
reminded  of  their  bereavements  at  every  crevice  of 
their  lives.  Eafe  had  pushed  up  the  wash-bench 
finally  against  the  door  to  keep  it  in  its  place. 


THE  MADONNA   OF  THE  TUBS.  185 

Mrs.  Salt  looked  about  the  little  group,  trying  du- 
teously  to  smile.  She  had  on  a  (dyed)  black  dress  ; 
she  looked  sixty  years  old ;  the  change  in  her  was 
ghastly  ;  an  indescribable  expression  had  got  hold 
of  her  face ;  she  seemed  like  a  dead  person  up  and 
dressed.  There  was  something  .no  less  than  dread- 
ful in  the  mechanical  gentleness  and  reserve  which 
had  settled  down  upon  this  emotional,  voluble  crea- 
ture. No  accident  betrayed  her  into  any  accelera- 
tion of  the  voice  ;  the  crossest  baby  never  raised  a 
ruffle  in  her  accent ;  she  had  such  a  monotonous 
sweetness  and  bruised  patience  as  seemed  like  a 
paralysis  of  common  human  nature.  Her  children 
could  not  remember  to  have  had  even  a  rebuke  from 
her  since  that  night  when  the  woman  neighbor  came 
in.     They  had  deserved  it  twenty  times. 

"  Children,"  she  said  dully  and  gently,  "  I  have  n't 
any  presents  for  you  this  Christmas.  It 's  the  first 
one,  I  guess.  I  can't  help  it,  you  know,  my  dears. 
We  are  very  poor  to-night.  But  I  '11  build  you  a  big, 
hot  fire  —  it 's  all  I  can  do.  We  '11  keep  Christmas 
Eve  by  keeping  warm,  if  we  can.  The  stove  don't 
work,  somehow  ;  the  lining  needs  fixing ;  it  needs  a 
man."  She  hesitated,  looking  pitifully  about  the 
room,  at  each  little  sober  face. 

"  Won't  that  do  ?  Won't  that  be  better  than  no 
Christmas  at  all  ?  I  thought  mebbe  it  would.  It 's 
all  mother 's  got  for  you.  She  could  n't  do  any  bet- 
ter. She  wanted  to.  He  always  set  so  much  by 
Christmas.     He  "  — 

The  broken  door  blew  in  and  slammed  against  the 
wash-bench  loudly.  Raf e  went  to  shut  it ;  but  it 
resisted  the   little   fellow's   strength  —  fell   inward 


18G  THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  TUBS. 

heavily,  and  with  it  a  huge  object  thrust  itself,  or 
was  thrust,  along  the  floor  noisily  enough. 

"  It 's  the  expressman  ! "  cried  Kafe.  "  It 's  Tan 
and  Suit's  express  cart,  for  us,  marm  !  " 

Now  the  Salt  family  had  never  had  an  express 
package  in  all  their  lives.  So  intense  was  the  ex- 
citement for  the  moment  that  it  was  almost  impossi- 
ble to  remember  that  one's  father  was  drowned. 
They  gathered  like  bees  about  the  box,  which  the 
driver  lifted  in  for  them  compassionately ;  even  stop- 
ping to  help  Emma  Eliza  start  the  cover. 

"  Seein'  ye  're  only  women-folks  —  of  a  Christmas 
Eve.  And  never  in  my  life  did  I  see  a  woman  could 
open  a  wooden  box.  Guess  ye  'd  have  to  set  on  it  all 
night  if  I  did  n't  —  and  no  man  else  to  do  for  ye  "  — 

But  Tan  and  Salt's  express  checked  himself,  and 
departed  hastily  from  the  loosened  cover  and  unfin- 
ished sentence,  letting  in  a  whirl  of  the  now  falling 
snow  as  he  closed  the  rattling  door.  He  wished,  with 
all  his  soul,  he  had  time  to  fix  that  latch. 

Now  in  that  box  —  what  mystery !  what  marvel ! 
Emma  Eliza  thought  it  was  like  a  "  Seaside  "  novel. 
Eafe  had  read  fairy  tales,  and  he  considered  it  prob- 
able that  it  was  the  work  of  what  he  called  "  a  genii," 
that  flannels  and  shoes,  and  a  second-hand  overcoat, 
and  mittens,  and  a  black  blanket  shawl,  should  land 
on  the  floor,  with  flour  and  coffee  and  crackers,  and 
a  package  of  tea  and  sugar,  and  rubbers  for  Sue,  and' 
a  turkey  for  Christmas  dinner,  and  under  all  —  stock- 
ings !  There  were  six  pairs  of  stockings  —  brown, 
red,  blue,  green,  gray,  and  white,  each  one  filled  to 
the  knee  with  Santa  Claus  knew  what  —  trifles  to 
the  giver,  ecstasy  to  the  child  —  all  the  way  down 


THE  MADONNA   OF  THE  TUBS.  187 

from  Emma  Eliza  to  the  baby  and  the  other  baby. 
Ah,  well,  such  things  do  happen,  thank  the  blessed 
Christmas  spirit,  in  the  homes  of  the  brave  and  self- 
helping  poor ;  they  do  not  perhaps  often  happen  so 
gracefully,  we  might  say  so  artistically. 

"  So  pretty,"  cried  Kafe  —  "  so  pretty  in  her." 
For  when  the  romance  of  the  expressman  was  fol- 
lowed by  the  immensity  of  a  smart  Fairh arbor  hack 
rolling  under  the  leafless  willows  to  the  very  door,  and 
E-afe,  pulling  back  the  wash-bench  again,  let  in,  with 
a  shower  of  bright  snow,  j\Iiss  Helen  Kitter,  standing 
tall  and  splendid  in  her  furs  of  silver-seal,  it  seemed 
quite  what  was  to  be  expected ;  and  not  one  of  the 
poor  souls  knew,  which  was  tlie  best  of  it,  that  the 
young  lady  had  never  done  such  a  thing  before  in  all 
her  life.  She  had  done  it  now  in  her  own  "  way  "  — 
that  whimsical,  obstinate,  lavish  way  that  sometimes 
was  so  wrong  and  sometimes  so  right,  but  this  time 
so  sweet  and  true.  Was  it  her  heart  that  told  her 
how  ?  For  her  head  was  painfully  uneducated  in 
sociology.  She  had  not  a  particle  of  training  as  a 
visitor  to  the  poor.  She  had  not  a  theory  as  to  their 
elevation.  She  had  never  been  interested  in  books 
concerning  their  management.  She  was  simply 
acquainted  with  her  washer-woman,  and  had  ap- 
proached her  as  she  Avould  any  other  acquaintance, 
according  to  the  circumstances  of  the  case.  It  was  a 
brave,  self-helpful  family  ;  she  knew  them  ;  not  a 
drop  of  pauper  blood  rolled  in  the  veins  of  their 
sturdy  bodies.  Ghastly  poverty  had  got  them  ;  worse 
was  before  them  ;  but  if  any  desolate  woman  and  her 
babes,  thrust  into  their  fate,  could  breast  it  and  not 
go  under,  these  were  they. 


188  THE  MADONNA    OF  THE  TUBS. 

As  a  human  being  to  human  beings,  Helen  Ritter 
had  come  ;  she  knew  no  more,  nor  thought  beyond. 
She  had  felt  moved  to  treat  them  as  she  would  wish 
to  be  treated  in  their  places,  and  she  did  as  she  was 
moved;  that  was  all.  If  she  made  no  blunder,  it 
was  certainly  owing  to  the  Tightness  of  her  instinct, 
not  to  the  wisdom  of  her  views. 

But  who  stopped  to  think  of  views  or  instincts  in 
the  astounded  cottage  that  Christmas  Eve  ?  Not 
Miss  Eitter,  stooping,  flushed  and  brilliant,  drawn 
down  by  children's  fingers  to  her  knees  upon  the 
kitchen  floor  among  the  Christmas  litter.  Not  Eafe, 
who  put  up  his  pale  face  and  kissed  her,  saying  not 
a  word.  Not  Emma  Eliza,  who  meant  to  ask  her  to 
play  a  Christmas  carol  on  the  instrument,  thinking 
that  Avould  be  polite.  (The  instrument,  by  the  Avay, 
was  drearily  seeking  a  purchaser,  poor  thing.)  Not 
Sue,  nor  Tommy,  nor  the  baby,  nor  the  other  baby, 
pulling  off  the  veil  which  had  shielded  the  feathers 
of  their  visitor's  dainty  bonnet  from  the  snow.  Not 
Mrs.  Salt,  who  came  up  to  take  her  fur-lined  cloak 
■with  a  soft,  "  You  '11  be  too  warm,  my  dear,"  and  so 
showing  all  the  stately,  luxurious  outlines  of  the 
finest  figure  she  had  ever  "  done  up,"  in  that  sweet 
and  humble  attitude,  kneeling  on  the  kitchen  floor. 
Not  Mrs.  Salt,  stealing  away  by  herself,  silent,  still, 
and  changed,  and  strange  —  she  had  scarcely  spoken. 
What  ailed  her  ?  What  would  she  ?  Where  was 
she  ?  Helen  Ritter,  unintroduced  to  mortal  sorrow, 
hesitated  before  the  bereavement  of  her  washer- 
woman, but  summoned  heart  at  last,  and  followed, 
slipping  from  the  children's  arms. 

Ellen  Jane  Salt  was  in  her  chilly  parlor,  crouched 


THE  MADONNA   OF  THE  TUBS.  189 

alone ;  she  had  got  into  a  corner  bent  over  some- 
thing, and  when  Miss  Eitter  came  up  she  was  half 
shocked  to  see  that  it  was  the  black  blanket  shawl. 

"  I  did  n't  know  what  ever  I  was  to  do  for 
mournin'  for  him  !  "  The  woman  looked  up,  break- 
ing out  thus  sharply.  •'  You  've  no  idea  how  they 
talk  about  us  Fairharbor  widows,  we  so  poor,  they 
say,  and  takin'  charity  to  spend  it  on  our  black  — 
and  reason,  maybe ;  but  ask  'em  if  it 's  human  natur 
to  break  your  heart  and  mourn  your  dead  in  colors. 
Ask  'em  if  bein'  poor  puts  out  human  natur.  Miss 
Eitter,  I  had  n't  nothin'  to  incfLirn  for  Henry  in  but 
this  one  old  dress  I  dyed  before  my  money  went  to 
Biram  for  the  rent,  and  my  cloak  was  a  tan-color  sea- 
son before  last,  and  trimmed  with  bugle  trimmin', 
and  my  shawl  Avas  a  striped  shaAvl,  with  red  betwixt, 
you  know.  And  us  without  our  coal  in,  me  going 
mournin'  for  my  husband  half  black,  half  colors,  like 
a  widow  that  was  half  glad  and  half  sorry  —  enough 
of  'em  be  —  my  dear,  it  hurt  me.  And  to  think  you 
should  think  of  that,  and  send  me  of  a  Christmas 
Eve  —  Oh,  my  dear,  I  have  n't  cried  before,  but  it 's 
the  tinderstandin'  me  that  breaks  me  up.  Oh,  don't 
notice  me,  don't  mind  me.  I  have  n't  cried  since  he 
was  drowned ;  I  have  n't  darst.  Oh,  don't  you  touch 
me  —  oh  yes,  you  may.  How  soft  your  arms  are  ! 
Oh,  nobody  has  held  me  since  he  —  Oh,  my  God  ! 
my  God !  my  God!  I  've  got  to  cry." 

"  Come  here,"  said  Helen  Eitter,  sobbing  too ; 
"come  here  and  let  me  hold  you,  and  tell  me  all 
about  it." 

"  HoAv  ca7i  I  tell  you  ?  "  moaned  the  woman.  "  Oh, 
it  is  such  a  dreadful  thing  to  tell !     Oh,  my  dear,  it 


190  THE  MADONNA   OF  THE  TUBS. 

is  n't  his  dyinrj ;  it  is  n't  that  Henry  is  dead.  If 
that  Avas  all,  I  'd  be  a  blessed  woman  —  me  a  "widow, 
and  them  fatherless,  and  so  poor  —  I  'd  be  a  blessed 
woman ;  and  God  be  thanked  to  mercy  this  living 
night  if  it  only  was  that  my  husband  had  died  !  Oh, 
how  should  you  know  ?  You  never  was  married ; 
you  never  had  a  husband  ;  you  never  quarreled  with 
the  man  you  loved." 

"  Hush  !  hush  !  hush  !  "  Involuntarily  the  lady 
thrust  her  hand  upon  the  other  woman's  mouth ; 
then  drew  it  off  and  patted  her  silently,  stroking  her 
hair  and  shoulders  wffch  exquisite  loving  motions,  as 
women  do  to  women  of  their  own  sort  when  sorrow 
is  upon  them. 

*'  We  quarreled,"  cried  Ellen  Jane  Salt,  throwing 
out  her  arms,  and  letting  them  drop  heavily  at  her 
side  —  "we  quarreled,  Miss  Kitter,  that  very  last 
night,  that  very  last  minute,  him  and  me  —  us  that 
loved  each  other,  man  and  wife,  for  seventeen  years, 
and  him  going  to  his  death  from  out  that  door.  '  Oh,' 
he  saj'S,  '  there 's  always  something  wrong  about  this 
house ! '  and  he  cursed  it ;  but  he  did  n't  mean  it, 
poor  fellow  ;  he  never  meant  it ;  for  they  must  have 
treated  him  to  the  wharves  to  make  him  say  a  thing 
like  that  —  you  know  they  must ;  and  I  says, '  There  's 
nothing  wrong  in  this  house  but  him  that 's  setting 
sail  from  it.'  My  God  !  my  God  !  my  God !  I  says 
those  words  to  him  at  the  very  last ;  and  he  "  — 

"  Marm,  I  told  him  you  was  sorry."  Eafe  pulled 
her  by  the  dyed  black  sleeve.  The  little  fellow's 
face  Avorked  pathetically.  He  did  not  know  before 
that  he  could  not  bear  it  to  see  his  mother  cry.  "  I 
think  —  I  believe  —  I  'm  pjetty  sure,"  said  Rafe, 
''  that  my  fa— ther  told  me,  '  So  he  /.'  " 


THE  MADONNA   OF  THE  TUBS.  191 

Helen  Eitter  drew  the  child  into  her  free  arm,  and 
so  held  him,  sick  at  heart,  for  in  that  supreme  mo- 
ment the  widowed  wife  seemed  to  have  gone  deaf 
and  blind ;  she  did  not  notice  even  Rafe. 

"  What 's  death,"  cried  Ellen  Jane,  lifting  her  vran 
face  to  heaven,  and  sinking  with  a  sickening,  writh- 
ing motion  to  her  knees,  —  "  what 's  death,  if  that 
was  all,  to  man  and  wife  that  love  each  other  ?  I  've 
been  cold  since  Henry  died,  and  I  've  gone  hungry 

—  don't  let  on  to  the  children,  for  they  don't  know 

—  and  I  'd  be  cold  and  hungry  ;  and  if  I  was  to  starve, 
what 's  that  ?  And  if  I  mourned  and  cried  for  him, 
lis  partin'  kind,  why,  what  is  that  ?  It 's  the  words 
between  us  !  —  oh,  it 's  the  words  between  us  !  I 
dream  'em  in  my  dreams,  I  hear  'em  in  the  wind,  I 
hear  'em  at  the  instrument  when  the  children  sing  — 
it 's  the  words  between  us  !  Him  that  courted  me 
and  wedded  me,  the  baby's  father  —  and  we  loved 
each  other,  and  we  come  to  words  that  last,  last  min- 
ute, him  going  to  his  death !  My  God  !  my  God  ! 
my  God !  .  .  . 

"  Miss  Eitter,  dear,  what  am  I  sayin'  ?  Send  the 
children  off.  Crying,  Eafe  ?  Don't,  dear.  There  ! 
mother's  sonny  boy ;  come  here.  Don't,  Eafe,  don't. 
Yes,  I  '11  come  and  see  the  Christmas  stockings.  Let 
me  be  a  minute.  Go,  Miss  Eitter,  with  'em,  if  you  '11 
be  so  good.  Kiss  me,  Eafe.  Mother  '11  come  pres- 
ently, my  son.  Let  me  be  a  minute,  won't  you,  by 
myself." 

They  went  and  left  her,  as  they  were  bidden,  every 
one.  Somebody  shut  the  door  of  the  chilly  parlor, 
not  quite  to,  and  so  shielded  her  in  for  a  little,  yet 
did  not  shut  her  off  alone  ;  they  could  not  bear  to. 


192     THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  TUBS. 

Helen  liitter  gathered  the  children  about  her, 
among  the  presents  and  plaj^things,  but  it  was  hard. 
Christmas  had  gone  out  of  the  fatherless  house.  It 
was  not  easy  for  sorrow  to  play  at  Christmas  Eve. 
Kafe  tried  to  entertain  the  lady.  He  told  her  he  was 
going  to  support  the  family.  He  told  her  how  he 
sat  as  mode]  to  the  gentleman  who  painted  up  at  the 
hotel,  and  Miss  Eitter  asked  about  the  pictures,  and 
a  little  about  the  painter,  but  not  so  much,  and  so 
they  chatted  quietly. 

"  Eeady,  mother  ?  "  called  Eafe,  at  the  half-shut 
door. 

"  Presently,  my  son."  * 

"Coming,  mother?"  begged  Emma  Eliza. 

"Tumin',  mummer?"  called  the  other  baby. 

"  In  a  minute,  yes,  my  dears." 

"  Mother,  Miss  Eitter  says  she  's  found  somebody 
to  buy  the  instrument.  Mother,  Miss  Eitter  says. 
she  wants  an  instrument.  She  says  she  '11  give  a 
hundred  and  twenty-five  dollars  for  it.  She  says 
she  wants  an  instrument  very  much.  Coming, 
mother  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  child." 

Just  as  she  came  out  among  them,  quiet  again, 
and  gentle  with  her  strange,  dull  gentleness,  and 
stood  so,  a  little  apart  from  them,  looking  on,  Eaf^ 
got  up  and  went  to  his  window,  where  the  curtain 
hung  half  drawn  (half-mast,  they  called  it),  and 
looked  out.  It  was  snowing  fiercely.  The  lights 
of  the  near  hotel  showed  through  the  white  drift. 
Emma  Eliza  would  walk  over  Avith  Miss  Eitter  when 
she  had  to  go.  Miss  Eitter  said  she  liked  a  little 
snow.     How  heavy  was  the  calling  of  the  sea  !     It 


THE  MADONNA   OF  THE  TUBS.  193 

was  like  the  chords  of  a  majestic,  mighty  organ  built 
into  the  walls  of  the  world. 

The  children  chattered  about  the  artists,  and 
pointed  out  their  rooms  yonder,  specks  of  light  in 
the  dark  hotel.  Miss  Eitter  paid  little  attention 
to  the  artists.  She  was  watching  Mrs.  Salt  —  and 
Rafe. 

What  ailed  Rafe  ? 

The  child  had  been  standing  with  his  face  pressed 
against  the  window  where  the  curtain  hung  at  half- 
mast  ;  his  yellow  hair  falling  forward  looked  like  a 
little  crown.  As  he  stood  he  began  to  croon  and 
hum  below  his  breath. 

"  He  has  n't  sung  that  one  before  since  father  "  — 
whispered  Emma  Eliza,  but  stopped,  sobbing.  Rafe 
was  humming  "  Pull  for  the  Shore." 

But  what  ailed  Rafe  ?  He  drew  away  from  the 
window ;  the  boy  had  turned  quite  pale ;  and  yet  it 
could  not  be  said  that  his  transparent,  delicate  face 
showed  fear.  He  went  up  slowly  to  his  mother,  and 
pulled  her  black  dress. 

"  Marm,  I  see  my  fa — ther." 

He  pointed  to  the  window,  against  which  the 
storm  pelted  fast  and  furious. 

"  I  've  frightened  you,  Rafe,"  said  the  mother 
quietly.  She  had  her  great  good  sense.  Ko  one 
should  ever  allow  her  children  to  be  afraid  of  their 
father  as  if  he  were  a  vulgar  ghost.  She  patted 
Rafe,  kissed  liim,  and  said,  "  Rafe  must  n't  say  such 
things." 

"Marm,"  persisted  the  boy,  "I  saw  my  fa — 
ther." 

"  It  's  the   snow,  Rafe,  vou  see  ;  it 's  so  white  — 


194  THE  MADONNA   OF  THE  TUBS. 

like  him.  Kafe  must  not  talk  like  silly  people. 
Dead  folks  can't  be  seen  by  little  boys.  There  ! 
There  's  that  old  latch  again,  Eafe.  How  it  acts  ! 
Go  and  fix  it,  dear." 

Like  a  child  Eafe  obeyed,  but  like  a  spirit  he  pon- 
dered, for  Rafe  had  his  dual  life  like  the  rest  of  us. 
Was  it  vulgar  to  see  ghosts  ?  Clearly  it  was  neces- 
sary to  push  the  wash-bench  against  the  door ;  and 
though  he  looked  like  a  spirit,  he  pushed  like  a  boy. 
AVith  his  knee  upon  the  bench,  with  his  hand  upon 
the  latch  —  But  this  was  the  moment  when  the 
child's  shrill  cry  sounded  and  resounded  through  the 
house : — 

"  Oh,  marm,  I  've  ffot  my  fa — ther  ! " 

And,  corpse  or  ghost  or  man,  Henry  Salt  pushed 
in  the  door,  hurled  over  the  wash-bench,  brushed 
aside  Miss  Eitter,  strode  over  the  children,  and 
hearing,  seeiug,  knowing  nothing  else,  if  alive  or 
dead,  whether  in  earth  or  heaven,  he  took  his  wife, 
in  her  black  dress,  into  his  arms. 

Eor  the  most  part,  as  we  all  know,  such  things 
are  dreamed  of.  In  Fairharbor  they  happen.  The 
material  of  novelists  and  poets  and  playwrights, 
elsewhere  woven  of  air  or  webbed  of  fancy  to  ap- 
pease the  imperious  human  desire  for  "a,  good 
ending  "  to  a  smart  fiction,  becomes  in  Fairharbor, 
now  and  then,  by  God's  ingenious  will,  the  startling 
fact. 

The  sea  had  given  up  her  dead.  One  month 
reckoned  of  the  solemn  number,  Henry  Salt,  like 
fishermen  before  him  and  fishermen,  please  God,  to 
come  after  him,  tossed  by  the  vagaries  of  the  sea 


THE  MADONNA   OF  THE  TUBS.  195 

and  her  toilers,  had  breasted  his  way  to  life  and 
love. 

He  was  a  man  of  sparse  words,  except  when  in 
liquor  or  in  temper,  and  he  took  but  few,  slowly 
spoken,  and  with  the  feint  of  carelessness  or  stolid- 
ity used  by  men  of  his  kind  to  mask  the  rare  and  so 
confusing  emotions  of  a  lifetime,  to  tell  his  short, 
true  tale  :  — 

"  We  was  lost  in  the  fog  and  drove  by  the 
weather,  and  we  was  picked  up  six  days  to  sea  by  a 
trader  bound  to  Liverpool.  That 's  all.  Her  name 
was  the  Rose  of  the  West  —  derned  silly  name  for  a 
merchantman.  She  took  me  an'  kep'  me  —  for  my 
dory -mate  was  frozen,  and  Mm  she  heaved  over- 
board — till  she  hailed  the  Van  Deusencock,  of  New 
York  city,  homeward  bound.  And  that 's  about  all. 
The  Van  Deusencock  she  took  me,  and  she  got  in  at 
midnight,  so  I  took  the  train  to  Boston,  for  I  'd  lost 
the  boat  —  she  'd  'a  ben  cheaper.  Have  you  got  a 
piece  of  squash  pie  in  the  house  ?  I  'm  hungry. 
I  'm  glad  to  get  home." 

The  fisherman  paused  with  a  final  air,  and  if  left 
to  himself  it  is  doubtful  if  he  would  have  added 
another  word  to  his  story  from  that  day  to  this. 
Men  of  the  sea  are  not  so  fond  as  traditionally  be- 
lieved of  detailing  their  thrilling  escapes.  They 
suffer  too  much,  and  it  is  comfortable  to  forget. 

"  Well  —  yes,"  reluctantly,  "  I  said  my  dory-mate 
was  froze.  I  did  n't  say  who  he  was.  I  've  no  ob- 
jections, as  I  know  of ;  only  I  hate  to  think  of  him. 
Job  Ely  was  my  dory-mate.  Yes.  We  was  to- 
gether to  see  our  trawls,  and  we  drifted  off  in  the 
fog  —  you  could  'a  cut  it  with  a  dull  bread-knife  !  — 


196  THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  TUBS. 

and  we  could  n't  find  our  way  back  to  the  Abby  E. 

Salt ;  and  that 's  all.  I  hate  to  think  on 't,  because 
he  died  first. 

"  There  was  a  bite  of  ship-bread  and  water  we 
had  aboard  the  dory  agin  accident  —  I  like  to  have 
something  —  so  they  kep'  me.  But  it  was  almighty 
cold.  Don't  you  remember  the  spell  o'  weather 
come  along  about  Thanksgiving  ?  Well,  Job  Ely 
froze.  He  froze  to  death.  So  I  had  to  do  the 
rowin'.  But  I  kep'  him,  for  I  reckoned  his 
mother  'd  like  to  hev  the  body.  I  thought  I  'd 
make  shore  along  some  o'  them  desarted  beaches. 
So  I  kep'  him,  but  I  covered  his  face,  and  I 
could  n't  make  shore,  and  it  was  God  A'mighty  cold. 
I  rowed  for  six  days  —  nigh  to  seven.  I  like  to 
died  —  Nelly  Jane,  don't  take  on  so  !  Don't,  my 
girl !  Set  in  my  lap  awhile  —  never  mind  the 
children.  Why,  how  you  do  shake  and  tremble*! 
Why,  look  a-here !  I  did  n't  do  it.  I  'm  a  livin' 
man.  I  've  got  you  in  these  here  arms.  Bless  the 
girl !  Emma  Eliza,  what  ails  your  marm  ?  Has 
she  took  on  this  way  all  this  while  —  for  me  ?  How 
peaked  she  looks  and  pale  and  sailer  —  kind  o' 
starved  !  There,  Nelly  Jane !  Give  me  a  mite  o' 
suthin'  for  her,  can't  you  ?  She  dooz  look  starved. 
Don't  want  nothin'  hut  a  kiss  ?  Here  's  twenty  of 
'em !  Who  ever  heard  of  a  woman  bein'  starved  for 
kisses  ?  Why,  what  a  girl  you  be !  Why,  this  is 
like  courtin'  —  old  married  folk  like  us.  Why, 
sho  !  I  don't  know  but  it 's  umth  a  man's  dyin'  and 
comin'  to  life  to  court  his  own  widder  —  this  way. 

"  Well,  yes,  I  did  get  pretty  cold.  Fact  is,  I  froze 
my  hands  —  froze  'em  stiff.     Fort'nate  they  friz  to 


THE  MADONNA   OF  THE  TUBS.  197 

the  oars,  so  I  kep'  a-rowin'.  Time  agin  I  give  out, 
and  like  to  lay  down  alongside  poor  Job  and  give  it 
up ;  but  then  they  was  friz  to  the  oars,  so  I  had  to 
keep  a  rowin'.  Cur'ous  thing,  now.  One  night, 
that  last  night  before  I  sighted  the  Eose  of  the 
West,  I  was  nigh  about  gone.  You  can't  think  how 
sick  I  was  o'  the  sight  o'  Job  —  he  looked  so.  But 
I  could  n't  bear  to  heave  him  over.  Well,  that  night 
—  I  tell  3^ou  the  Sunday  mornin'  truth  —  I  heerd 
Kafe  singin'  and  Emma  Eliza  playin'  to  him  on  the 
instrument,  and  I  heerd  Eafe  sing  :  — 

"  '  Pull  for  the  shore,  fa — ther.' 

I  heerd  him  plain  as  judgment,  with  the  girl  j'inin' 
in  the  chorus.  But  I  heerd  Rafe  quite  plain  and 
loud,  — 

'■ '  Pull  for  the  shore,  fa — ther,  pull  for  the  shore  !  ' 

Cur'ous,  wa'n't  it  ?  JIow  'd  that  hymn-tune  know 
her  chart,  navigatin'  all  them  waters  after  me  ? 
Say  ?  I  heerd  her.  She  need  n't  tell  me.  I  heerd 
my  little  son  singin'  to  his  father  —  me  's  good  as  a 
dead  man  —  and  by  the  livin'  God  I  up  an'  pulled  ! 

''  What  did  you  say,  Kafe  ?  I  don't  know.  My 
hands  was  froze. "  Can't  say  what  I  can  do  for  a 
livin'  with  'em  till  I  've  tried.  Have  to  stay  ashore, 
maybe.  I  hain't  got  so  far  as  that.  I  don't  mind 
my  hands,  so 's  I  've  got  my  folks. 

"  What  did  I  holler  back  the  night  I  went  away  ? 
I  don'  know  's  I  know.  You  mean  the  night  me 
and  your  marm  had  words  ?  I  had  n't  oughter  had 
'em.  I  thought  on  't  a  sight.  I  hoped  she  'd  forget 
'em.  I  kinder  thought  she  would.  ^  So  he  V  ?  I 
don't   remember   sayin'  '  So  he  /.'     I   misremember, 


198     THE  MADONNA   OF  THE  TUBS. 

Rafe.  Guess  it  must  'a'  ben  —  yes,  yes — sure 
enough.  Sho  !  Yes,  yes.  I  was  a-callin'  to  poor 
Job  —  him  ahead  of  me,  for  I  was  late  —  I  says, 
'  Job  Ely  !     Job  Ehj  !  '  says  I." 

"  I  never  says  I  knew  you  says  so,  fa — ther.  I 
says,  I  think,  I  believe,  he  said,  '  So  be  I.'  I  wanted 
to  say  I  knew  you  says  so,  fa — ther." 

"  I  'd  oughter,  Rafe.     But  I'm  afraid  I  did  n't." 

"  Fa — ther,  did  you  hear  me  say  "  —  But  Rafe 
stopped.  He  could  not  ask  his  father,  "Did  you 
hear  me  say,  '  Marm  says  she  's  sorry '  ?  "  The  fine 
instinct  of  the  fisherman's  child  was  equal  to  that 
emergency.  Rafe  did  not  ask  the  question,  and 
never  will. 

'•'  Fa — ther,"  once  again.  Rafe  came  up  and 
leaned  against  the  big  wooden  rocking-chair  wherein 
the  two  sat  "courting,"  —  the  massive,  puzzled, 
tender  man,  the  little  woman,  laughing  and  crying 
in  her  widow's  dress.  "Fa — ther,  what  did  you 
think  about,  when  you  thought  you  'd  be  froze  and 
drownded  —  all  that  time  ?  " 

"  My  son,"  said  Henry  Salt,  after  a  long  silence, 
which  nobody,  not  even  the  baby,  or  the  other 
baby,  seemed  to  care  or  dare  to  break  —  "  my  son, 
I  thought  about  your  poor  mother.  I  see  that  latch 
wants  a  screw,"  added  the  fisherman,  in  his  leisurely, 
matter-of-fact  voice.  "I  guess  I'll  fix  it  after 
you  've  warmed  the  pie  up,  Ellen  Jane." 

But  Emma  Eliza,  whether  from  such  excess  of 
earthly  blessedness  as  to  lead  her  to  fear  that  one's 
heavenly  prospects  might  be  slighted,  or  whether 
from  some  vague  sense  of  saying  her  prayers,  or 
whether  solely  out  of  respect  for  the  instrument, 


THE  MADONNA   OF  THE  TUBS.  199 

will  never  be  known,  danced  madly  to  that  melo- 
dious member  of  the  family,  and  wailed  out  the 
general  ecstasy  in  the  lugubrious  strains  of  "  The 
Sweet  By-and-by." 

"  But  I  never  thoright  of  its  being  ^/ow." 

Helen  Bitter,  confronted  in  the  entry  of  the  big 
empty  summer  hotel  by  that  timely  artist  whose 
need  of  models  had  made  Eaffe  the  proud  support  of 
a  fatherless  family,  dashed  out  these  words  too  im- 
petuously to  be  recalled. 

"  You  !  and  here  again  !  "  She  was  dazzling  with 
snow  and  color.  She  would  have  drawn  herself  to 
her  full  height  splendidly,  but  his  was  higher.  In 
that  gloomy  place,  by  the  light  of  the  lonely  and 
smoky  kerosene  lamp  swinging  from  the  cold  ceil- 
ing, it  seemed  indeed  as  if  he  outvied  her  in  splen- 
dor. As  she  looked  up,  it  was  as  if  his  mere  phys- 
ical presence  would  break  her  heart  and  grind  it  to 
powder  —  it  was  so  long  since  she  had  seen  him. 

Their  eyes  clashed,  retreated,  advanced,  united, 
and  held  gloriously.  They  defied  each  other,  they 
adored  each  other,  taunted  and  blessed,  challenged 
and  yielded,  blamed  and  forgave,  wounded  and  wor- 
shiped, as  only  a  few  men  and  women  may  in  all 
the  world,  and  love  the  better  for  it.  The  story 
of  years  was  told  without  a  word ;  the  secret  of 
anguish  was  said  in  silence ;  the  torrent  of  joy 
poured  past  dumb  lips,  and  there  by  the  winter  sea, 
on  a  Christmas  Eve,  in  the  dismal  hotel  entry,  by 
the  light  of  the  smoky  kerosene,  two  souls,  without 
speech  or  language,  met,  perhaps  for  the  first  time 
in  all  their  lives. 


200  THE  MADONNA   OF  THE  TUBS. 

"  I  saw  you  through  the  window  over  there,"  he 
stammered  rapturously.  "  Oh,  I  saw  you  holding 
the  woman  in  your  arms,  and  the  child  came  up  and 
kissed  you.  Why,  I  heard  you  sob.  I  was  mean 
enough  to  listen.  And  I  said,  '  Why,  she  '5  a  tender 
ivoman.  She  never  could  have  meant  —  She  would 
forgive.'  We  misunderstood  each  other  somehow, 
Helen.  For  Love's  sake  give  me  the  right  to  find 
out  how." 

"  Oh,"  said  Helen  Eitter,  lifting  her  arms  with  a 
gentle  and  beautiful  motion  that  might  well  have  set 
a  calmer  man  beside  himself,  "she  told  me  I  had 
never  quarreled  with  the  —  man  I  —  loved." 

When  they  moved  to  shut  the  hotel  door  —  for 
the  snow  was  drifting  in  —  and  so  stood  for  a  mo- 
ment between  the  storm  without  and  the  shelter 
within,  Eafe  and  Emma  Eliza  at  the  instrument  were 
singing  shrilly,  — 

"  Give  the  wind  time 

To  blow  the  man  home  !  " 

It  seemed  that  Henry  Salt  had  picked  up  another 
verse  to  this  long-suffering  song  upon  the  voyage, 
for,  past  the  bowlders,  over  the  thickets,  under  the 
willows,  through  the  snow,  borne,  not  drowned,  by 
the  paean  of  the  organ  of  the  sea,  thus  roundly  on 
the  gale  his  bass  trolled  forth  :  — 

"  Give  your  life  time 

To  blow  the  heart  home  \  " 

"  I  want  to  sing  it  too,"  said  Helen  Eitter.  He 
to  whom  her  lightest  wish  was  dearest  law  drew 


THE  MADONNA   OF  THE  TUBS.  201 

her  furs  about  lier,  and  led  her  out  into  the  storm  ; 
where,  standing  hand  in  hand,  unseen,  unheard,  they 
joined  their  voices  to  the  fisher-people's,  and  sang 
the  wise,  sweet  words. 


A  BKAVE  DEED. 


I  AM  a  trouble  man.  That 's  what  they  call  it  in 
my  business. 

But  first  let  me  tell  you.  I  ought  to  go  back  and 
begin  at  the  beginning.  I  ain't  used  to  telling  things 
—  only  yarns  to  the  boys.  But  I  never  set  down  by 
the  job,  before,  and  made  head  'n'  tail  of  what  hap- 
pens to  folks  —  me  nor  other  folks.  You  '11  excuse 
me,  ma'am,  if  I  don't  get  my  hand  in.  I  'm  a  greeny 
at  it.  If  you  had  n't  asked  me  to  tell  you,  I  would 
n't  ha'  thought  of  it.  When  my  wife  says  to  me  : 
"  She  wants  you  to  go  and  set  in  her  setting-room,  of 
an  evening,  and  tell  her  all  about  it,"  I  was  stmck  of 
a  heap.  But  I  could  n't  back  out  after  I  'd  got  my 
foot  in.  So  here  I  be.  I  '11  tell  you.  I  '11  tell  you 
best  way  I  know  how.  I  don't  know  's  I  care  much 
about  your  tellin'  other  folks  ;  but  I  'm  not  against 
it.  I  have  n't  only  one  thing  I  'd  like  to  stipperlate 
about  that.  Bamboozle  'em  with  the  given  name. 
That 's  all.  I  'd  rather  you  would  n't  use  my  given 
name.  I  ain't  partikkeler  on  any  other  point  as  I 
know  of.  I  '11  leave  the  rest  to  you.  I  'm  willin',  if 
you  are. 

My  name  is  Charles  S.  —  call  it  Scattergood  if  you 
like ;  Charles  S.  Scattergood.  That 's  as  good  as 
any,  for  bamboozling  purposes.     I  knew  a  man  once 


A  BRAVE  DEED.  203 

named  Scattergood.  He  was  in  hogs,  out  to  Chicago 
—  packed  pork ;  he  come  to  a  violent  end  from  mis- 
takin'  of  a  bottle  of  solfurious  acid  for  a  hot  scotch : 
that 's  the  way  I  come  to  remember  the  name. 

I  am  a  lineman  in  the  Atlantic  and  Pacific  Tele- 
phone Company.  I  've  been  on  the  force  six  years. 
It  ain't  an  easy  life.  Any  lineman  will  tell  you. 
Ask  'em.  But  I  have  n't  come  to  that  yet.  That 
is  n't  the  beginning.  The  beginning  is  —  ISTo  ;  let 
me  think. 

You  see  there  was  —  a  girl.  The  beginning  was 
about  a  girl.  I  don't  know  but  that 's  the  beginning 
of  bother  anyhow  you  fix  it ;  seems  so,  don't  it  ?  I 
can't  say.  I  don't  know  much  about  'em,  only  this 
one  I  speak  about.  She  was  my  girl.  The  boys 
called  her  my  best  girl,  but  they  had  n't  ought  to. 
I  had  n't  any  second-best,  nor  any  other  girl  but  just 
this  girl.  I  ain't  that  sort.  I  never  took  to  women- 
folks that  way.  I  was  kind  of  shy  with  'em.  I 
never  cared  about  any  girl  but  this.  We  'd  been 
keepin'  company  quite  a  while.  I  think  it  was  as 
much  as  a  year.  We  warn't  promised,  but  I  never 
thought  of  anybody  else,  ma'am.  I  'm  that  kind. 
There  warn't  anything  in  the  way  but  to  wait  till 
she  felt  like  it,  herself.  She  knew  that.  She  warn't 
in  a  hurry  to  be  married.  I  did  n't  want  to  skeer 
her.  I  did  n't  say  much  to  her,  only  to  try  to  please 
her.  I  liked  her.  I  never  liked  anybody  so  much  in 
all  my  life.     I  could  n't  help  it. 

Her  name  was  Annie.  Call  it  Annie  —  well,  call 
it  Annie  Hope.  That 's  a  pleasant-sounding  name,  I 
think.  Hers  was  pleasant,  too.  I  used  to  say  it  over 
a  good  deal  to  mvself,  while  I  was  to  work.     I  used 


204  A  BRAVE  DEED. 

to  tliiuk  it  kept  me  from  getting  giddy  sometimes  on 
top  of  extry  high  poles  and  crossing  roofs,  and  when 
it  was  slippery,  and  in  doin'  of  dangerous  jobs,  hun- 
dreds of  feet  above  safer  men  that  earned  their  livin' 
on  the  sidewalk.  It  steadied  my  head.  I  said  it 
over,  as  if  you  was  to  say,  "Annie  —  Annie  Hope," 
while  I  was  tracing  trouble  or  doing  any  dizzy 
thing. 

You  want  to  know  what  is  tracing  trouble  ?  I  '11 
tell  you  i^resently.  I  '11  explain  myself  as  I  go  along, 
but  I  've  got  to  go  my  own  ways.  I  'm  like  a  mud- 
turtle —  he'll  get  there,  give  him  time  enough-;  but 
he  '11  double  and  hedge  and  go  like  he  was  molly- 
coddled out  of  his  points  of  compass,  all  the  way. 
I  'm  sort  of  slow  in  my  disposition  and  set.  I  never 
could  be  hurried. 

There 's  another  one  I  've  got  to  get  in  first.  I 
want  to  be  quit  of  explaining  how  he  got  here.  I 
want  to  clear  my  mind  of  Charley  Scattergood  be- 
fore I  go  ahead.  Be  was  n't  a  turtle  ;  there  was  n't 
anything  slow  about  him ;  he  was  different  from 
me :  he  'd  do  what  he  d —  what  he  pleased,  anyhow 
you  fixed  it,  quicker  'n  a  fellow  of  my  sort  could  find 
out  he  meant  to  do  it.  He  was  more  like  a  tarrier, 
Charley  was.  You  can  understand,  ma'am,  that 
there  was  a  difference  between  us  just  from  that 
point  of  the  way  we  was  called.  We  had  the  same 
name,  you  see  —  happened  to.  It  does  happen,  but  it 
ain't  so  likely  with  the  name  of —  Scattergood.  But 
there  we  was  on  the  same  force,  doing  the  same 
jobs,  answering  to  the  same  orders,  and  round  among 
the  same  folks,  so  they  told  us  apart  like  twins,  that 
way.     Charles   S.   Scattergood,  that 's   me,  always. 


A  BRAVE  DEED.  205 

But  him  they  called  Charley.  iSTobody  ever  called  me 
Charley.  It  did  n't  come  natural.  Charles  S.,  that 
was  me;  and  Charley,  that  was  him.  Folks  knew 
us  apart  as  well  as  if  we'd  been  Moses  and  Yan- 
kee Doodle.  He  had  curly  hair  for  one  thing,  and 
I  've  noticed  Avhen  a  fellow  by  the  name  of  Charles 
has  curly  hair  folks  call  him  Charley.  He  was  a 
very  good-looking  fellow.  He  was  better  looking 
than  I  be.  And  he  had  a  way  about  him,  a  rollick- 
ing sort  of  way,  for  he  'd  been  a  sailor  ;  a  good  many 
of  our  business  have.  It  comes  'em  in  good  stead, 
I  tell  you,  spurring  up  a  rotten  pole  after  a  sleet- 
storm.     The  girls  all  took  to  Charley  Scattergood. 

Now,  there  's  one  thing  I  never  could  see  the  sense 
of,  and  that 's  a  drunken  lineman.  I  say  :  Suppose 
you  're  on  the  roof  of  a  seven-story  building  shaking 
out  a  cross  ?  I  don't  drink.  It  ain't  sense.  But 
Charley,  he  had  his  sprees  ;  nothin'  never  harmed 
him,  either.  I  've  seen  him  so  far  under  he  could  n't 
walk  straight  to  dinner,  and  he  'd  crawl  out  onto  the 
eaves  to  untie  a  twist  or  fasten  guys  or  any  of  those 
jobs,  and  not  so  much  as  topple.  It  was  his  luck. 
The  boys  always  said  Charley  Scattergood  had  luck. 
Some  said  it  was  because  he  was  such  a  handsome 
fellow.     But  some  said  it  was  drink-luck. 

Now,  ma'am,  his  making  up  to  my  girl  —  that 
comes  next.  I  've  got  to  tell  you  about  that,  or  you 
wouldn't  understand  the  story.  When  first  I  see 
him  makin'  up  to  her,  I  says,  "  That 's  Charley  Scat- 
tergood's  luck."  But  I  did  n't  believe  he  'd  get  her, 
someways,  I  could  n't.  She  'd  kept  company  with 
me.  I  thought  it  was  one  of  her  little  ways  —  for 
she  was  full  of  'em  ;  she  was  n't  like  me  ;  she  had 


206  A  BRAVE  DEED. 

the  mischief  in  her,  Annie  had ;  she  was  always  up 
to  something ;  and  she  liked  a  new  man  to  find  out 
what  a  pretty  girl  she  was  —  there  most  generally 
was  one.  I  was  used  to  it.  I  put  up  with  it,  for  she 
kept  company  with  me.  She  always  made  a  differ- 
ence between  me  and  them.  And  I  says  to  myself  : 
"  She  is  so  pretty  !  She  'd  ought  to  have  her  little 
ways.  I  'm  different  from  she  is.  I  'm  slow  and  set. 
And  then  I  ain't  a  handsome  fellow.  I  must  be  pa- 
tient with  Annie." 

I  was  pretty  patient,  take  it  all,  I  guess,  for  I 
never  riled  her,  nor  upset  her  mind  by  jealousness 
and  nagged  her.  I  says  to  myself :  "  She  don't  love 
you  hard  enough,  Charles  S.  Scattergood,  for  you  to 
have  her.  Wait.  Be  patient  with  her.  She  's  so 
pretty  !  Let  her  have  her  ways  out,  and  you  keep 
still.     You  just  wait.     Don't  you  bother  Annie." 

I  'd  like  to  tell  you  what  she  looked  like  them 
days,  if  I  knew  how.  She  was  n't  like  the  other  girls. 
She  had  lots  of  pluck.  She  had  a  queer  little  way 
w^th  her  —  a  sort  of  mannish  way.  She  was  n't  man- 
nish, not  a  bit.  I  don't  like  that  kind.  It  was  only 
a  sort  of  trick  of  hers,  like  children's  tricks  when 
they  play  at  being  something.  It  kind  of  tickled 
her  to  play  at  it,  I  thought.  She  cut  her  hair  short, 
but  it  was  curly  hair,  of  a  yellow  color,  very  light ; 
and  it  wrinkled  all  over  her  head  like  a  little  girl's 
—  she  could  n't  look  like  a  fellow  to  save  her.  Some 
of  'em  can.  I  don't  like  that  sort.  Annie  never 
could.  She  wore  a  little  linen  collar  sometimes, 
choking  up  her  pretty  throat  with  a  stiff  necktie,  but 
her  throat  was  so  soft  it  made  you  laugh  to  see  it. 
Then  she   had   a  notion,  one  time,  of   running  her 


A  BBAVE  DEED.  207 

hands  into  lier  sack  pockets  ;  and  she  'd  put  her  arm 
over  a  sofy  —  that  way.  But  you  'd  have  hiughed  — 
it  was  so  round ;  she  could  n't  square  off  at  the  elbow, 
to  save  her.  She  had  a  dimple,  too  —  I  liked  that. 
And  she  had  the  biggest  eyes  you  ever  see  ;  blue 
eyes.  She  was  always  laughing,  Annie  was.  And 
when  I  saw  her  put  on  those  little  ways,  those  man's 
ways,  I  tell  you  of,  I  did  n't  scold  her.  Mebbe  I  'd 
ought  to ;  but  I  could  n't,  for  it  amused  me.  I  used 
to  think  of  when  I  played  house  up-country,  when  I 
was  a  little  shaver,  with  some  other  young  one,  and 
if  she  was  a  girl  young  one  maybe  she  'd  say  :  "  We  '11 
take  turns.  I'll  play  husband  this  time;"  —  as  if 
Annie  was  up  to  some  such  game.  There  was  n't 
much  man  in  my  girl.     No. 

Nor  she  was  n't  that  way  so  much  to  me,  I  'd  have 
you  understand.  I  see  it  more  with  other  folks. 
She  was  different  Avith  me.  That  was  what  I  liked 
about  it.  She  'd  treat  them  other  men  as  if  she  was 
another  fellow.  But  she  kept  company  with  7ne. 
She  kept  company  with  me  like  she  was  a  girl. 

Now  the  time  I  speak  of  was  this  time.  It  was  in 
winter,  come  January,  two  years  ago.  It  had  been 
a  very  cold  winter,  if  you  remember.  It  was  n't  a 
lineman's  winter,  you  better  believe.  It  come  hard 
on  us.  But  it  come  toughest  on  the  trouble  men. 
I  '11  tell  you  about  that  when  I  get  to  it.  We  'd  had 
a  great  deal  of  snow  and  blow.  There  'd  been  a 
power  of  sleet.     They  'd  kept  me  pretty  busy. 

Maybe  it  was  along  of  being  busier  than  usual  and 
of  not  seeing  her  quite  so  regular  that  Annie  and 
him  made  up  so  far.  I  thought  so  afterwards.  Girls 
like  bein'  remembered  of.     Lord  knows  I  never  for- 


208  A  BRAVE  DEED. 

got  her  —  used  to  wish  I  could.  But  there's  oue 
thing  I've  noticed  about  girls.  They  want  to  be 
told  things  —  they're  that  way.  There's  another 
thing  :  seems  as  if  their  minds  was  insulated  on  the 
subject  of  business  ;  they  don't  make  connections  on 
it.  Seems  as  if  they  thought  a  man  could  earn  his 
bread  and  butter  makin'  love.  If  it  come  this  way, 
so  's  I  was  on  duty  and  he  was  off,  he  'd  run  over 
there.  Then  he  boarded  pretty  nigh  her.  She  lived 
in  East  Boston.  I  lived  in  Kussell  Street,  myself, 
with  my  married  sister.  She 's  a  widder  lady,  and 
my  board  helped  her  along.  He  had  chances  against 
me  of  running  in  by  spells.  Come  to  think  of  it 
afterwards,  I  guess  he  made  the  most  of  'em. 

Now  this  time  I  tell  you  of  I  was  going  to  take 
her  to  the  thea^tre.  She  Avas  very  fond  of  the 
theaytve,  and  I  'd  said  we  'd  go  first  evening  I  could 
fix  it.  So  it  was  to  be  of  a  Wednesday  or  a  Satur- 
da}^,  and  if  I  could  n't  let  her  know  —  her  being  in 
East  Boston  —  I  was  to  do  the  best  I  could,  her  being 
ready  to  go  one  of  them  two  nights  quite  agree- 
able, and  me  to  call  for  her.  So  of  a  Wednesday  I 
could  n't  go,  for  my  chief,  he  sent  me  out  tracing 
trouble  under  Charles  Eiver  bridge,  for  a  wire  was 
down  from  the  ice  that  bothered  us  considerably,  and 
I  was  to  work  late  and  drenched  through, — and  it  was 
tarnation  cold,  —  and  when  I  got  home  to  Russell 
Street  and  got  my  supper  and  into  dry  close,  and  de- 
cent to  show  myself  to  her,  it  was  going  on  to  nine 
o'clock,  so  I  had  to  put  it  off.  So  it  come  Saturday 
night,  and  I  got  ready  early,  for  it  was  a  mild  night 
and  pleasant,  and  I  was  in  a  hurry,  and  I  hurried 
over  to  East  Boston,  and  I  felt  happy,  the  way  a  man 


A  BRAVE  DEED.  209 

does  when  he 's  going  to  his  girl,  for  I  had  n't  seen 
her  since  Monday,  and  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  it  was  a 
good  while. 

So  when  I  got  there  to  her  father's  house  —  for 
her  father  is  a  stone-cutter  in  Digger  and  Downs's 
marble-yard,  and  he  does  a  steady  business,  and 
brought  her  up  most  partikkeler,  and  sent  her 
through  the  grammar  school  and  talked  about  the 
high,  and  I  've  nothin  against  him  only  for  marrying 
of  a  step-mother  that  Annie  didn't  like,  I  don't 
know 's  I  ever  blamed  her,  for  she  had  the  neurology 
done  up  in  flannel  bandages  of  a  gray  color  like  to 
make  you  wish  she  was  n't  there  —  when  I  got  to 
her  father's  house  this  night  I  tell  you,  to  take  my 
girl  to  the  thea^/tre  —  ma'am,  she  would  n't  go  with 
me. 

"I'm  obliged  to  you,"  she  says,  "but  I  ain't 
a-going.     I  don't  feel  like  it." 

"  But  I  've  got  the  tickets,"  says  I,  for  she  'd  never 
spoke  like  that  to  me  before.  "  It 's  the  play  you  said 
—  it 's  the  '  Pearl  of  the  Xecktie  Factory.'  "  For  she 
had  a  shine  to  see  the  "  Pearl  of  the  Xecktie  Fac- 
tory ;  "  it  had  run  a  hundred  nights  ;  she  'd  talked 
about  it  a  sight,  and  so  I  'd  got  the  tickets.  I  give  a 
dollar  for  them  two  tickets. 

"  Why,  what 's  the  matter,  Annie  ?  "  says  I,  for 
she  did  n't  say  much  to  me.    "  What  ails  you,  dear  ?  " 

She  was  setting  on  the  sofa  in  her  father's  setting- 
room,  for  her  step-mother  was  scolding  of  the  baby 
in  the  front  chamber,  and  we  was  by  ourselves. 

So  she  turned  her  pretty  head  and  looked  at  me, 
and  then  she  looks  away.  Seems  as  if  she  did  and 
did  n't.    Seems  as  if  she  would  and  would  n't.    Seems 


210  A  BRAVE  DEED. 

as  if  she  should  and  should  n't  —  the  way  a  woman 
does. 

"  You  did  n't  come  a  Wednesday,"  so  she  says  to 
me. 

"  I  could  n't  come  on  Wednesday,"  says  I  to  her. 
"  I  done  my  best.  You  'd  ought  to  know  it.  I  was 
clearing  trouble  under  Charles  River  bridge.  I  done 
the  best  I  could." 

"  Well,"  she  says,  "  I  went  o'  Wednesday.  I  've  seen 
the  play.  I  've  seen  the  '  Pearl  of  the  Xecktie  Fac- 
tory,' and  I  don't  know 's  I  care  to  see  it  again,"  she 
says.  "  You  could  have  come  if  you  'd  tried  hard," 
she  says.  "  A  smart  fellow  like  you  are  (she  did  call 
me  a  smart  fellow,  don't  you  see  ?),  he  can  do  a  thing 
if  he  set  out  to." 

"  There  's  one  thing,"  says  I  very  slow,  for  I  was 
that  cut,  "  there  's  one  thing  the  smartest  man  can't 
do ;  he  can't  make  a  girl  reasonable,  if  she  won't 
be." 

"  If  it 's  so  bad  as  that,"  says  she,  "  I  would  n't 
waste  your  vallyable  time  setting  here.  Maybe  you 
can  spend  it  better,"  says  she,  "  and  so  can  I,  sir." 

And  up  she  gets  and  leaves  the  sofy,  and  oif  she 
goes  upstairs. 

"  You  '11  be  so  polite  as  to  excuse  me,"  she  says ; 
"  my  step-mother  desires  me  to  scold  the  baby  for 
her  this  evening,  on  account  of  her  neurology  having 
struck  to  her  brains." 

'*  You  went  to  the  theaytre  with  Charley  Scatter- 
good  !  "  cries  I ;  like  that. 

"  I  ain't  that  bound  to  you  not  to  go  with  who  I 
please,"  she  says,  "  nor  I  won't  be  in  a  hurry  nei- 
ther." 


A  BE  AVE  DEED.  211 

Ma'am,  they  seem  little  things  to  get  between  a 
man  and  the  girl  he  liked.  Don't  think  they  ever 
did  seem  so  small  as  they  do  now  I  come  to  tell  'em. 
If  it  had  been  a  big  thing,  I  'd  have  known  what  to 
do  with  it  —  something  like  a  runaway  horse,  or  an 
avalanche,  or  a  fellow  I  could  have  hit,  or  something 
like  that.  But  it  was  n't  nothing  but  that  little 
thing  —  the  way  a  girl's  mind  worked.  I  'm  a  big 
fellow,  you  see ;  but  all  my  muscle  was  n't  good 
for  that !  against  that  strange,  small,  pretty  creature 
in  the  working  of  her  mind.  I  could  have  carried 
her  in  these  here  arms  from  Boston  to  San  Francisco ; 
I  could  have  climbed  to  the  top  of  a  seventy-five  foot 
telegraph  pole  with  her  and  held  her  there  in  a  thun- 
der-storm —  but  there  I  set  like  a  baby  on  the  sofy, 
beaten  by  the  working  of  her  mind. 

I  got  my  hat  and  left.  There  was  n't  nothing 
else  to  do.  I  got  my  hat  and  cleared  out  into  the 
street,  and  there  I  walked  and  walked.  I  was  raging 
mad.  *I  was  mortal  hurt.  I  went  from  mad  to  hurt 
and  back  again  from  hurt  to  mad,  like  I  should  die 
for  it.  I  'm  a  slow  man  in  my  temper,  but  when  it 's 
up,  I  take  it  out ;  same  way  with  my  feelin's  —  she  'd 
hurt  my  feelin's.  She  never  hurt  me  that  way  till 
that  time.  I  did  n't  know  she  could.  She  had  her 
little  tantrums  and  little  ways  with  me  ;  but  she 
never  got  my  feelin's  like  they  was  that  night. 

jSTow,  I  '11  tell  you.  Whilst  I  was  walking  up  and 
down  outside  and  raging  to  myself,  I  saw  a  man  come 
up  and  ring  her  door-bell.  He  come  quite  sudden  to 
my  sight,  for  there  was  a  street-light  opposite  her 
door,  and  he  come  flash  !  beneath  it  all  to  once.  He 
was  rigged  up  in  all  his   Sunday  close,  and  he  had 


212  A  BRAVE  DEED. 

blarsted  curly  hair,  and  he  was  a  handsome  fellow, 
and  I  did  n't  need  no  spiritooal  mejum  to  tell  me  it 
was  Charley  Scattergood.     Worse  take  him  ! 

She  come  to  the  door  herself.  She  did.  She 
was  n't  taking  care  of  no  step-baby.  She  had  her 
things  on,  and  her  little  hat  set  sidewise  on  her  short 
hair,  and  she  wore  a  little  green  gown,  she  had, 
her  Sunday  gown  with  fixin's  on  it  made  of  fur  or 
feathers,  and  there  she  stands,  for  she  seemed  to  be 
going  somewheres,  and  I  heard  him  say  :  — 

"  Hilloa,  Nan  !  "  —  for  he  did,  he  called  her  Nan. 
But  /  had  always  called  her  Annie.  She  never  put 
her  hat  on  the  side  of  her  head  for  me.  She  never 
stood  that  way,  with  her  hand  against  her  —  that 
silly  little  boyish  way  —  with  me.  She  'd  been  all 
girl  to  me.     But  she  says :  — 

"  Hilloa,  Charley  ! "  just  as  if  she  'd  been  another 
fellow  :  and  she  laughs  and  nods  at  him  ;  and  for  all 
it  was  so  silly,  she  looked  so  pretty,  and  her  dimple 
looked  so,  standing  there,  I  could  have  killed  liim. 

But,  ma'am,  when  she  come  to  shut  the  door,  and 
he  went  in  and  I  see  him  in  the  front  entry  against 
the  entry  light,  I  saw  him  reelin'  in  beside  her ;  and 
I  said :  "  He  's  drunk." 

Well.  She  did  n't  go  anywhere  with  him,  for  I 
watched  to  see  ;  maybe  she  had  the  sense  to  make 
out  his  condition  ;  maybe  her  father  would  n't  let 
her,  — for  I  knew  her  father  was  to  home  and  would 
look  after  her,  —  and  so  I  come  away. 

I  come  away,  and  home  I  come  acrost  the  ferry, 
and  I  looked  up  at  the  stars,  for  it  was  such  a  pleas- 
ant night,  and  I  'd  been  so  happy  coming  over  — 
and  I  went  from  hurt  to  mad,  and  I  went  from  mad 


A  BRAVE  DEED.  213 

to  mad,  and  then  I  went  from  mad  to  terror  —  lest 
he  should  get  her  after  all.  And  I  cursed  him,  for  I 
could  have  killed  him.  I  cursed  him  on  that  ferry, 
all  the  way.     I  seemed  to  say  to  him :  — 

"  Charley  Scattergood,  you  've  got  my  girl.  She 
ain't  your  girl.  She 's  mine.  You  ain't  fit  to  have 
her.  Let  her  be  !  I  '11  fling  you  overboard.  Let  us 
be!" 

For  it  seemed  as  if  he  was  on  deck  beside  me,  and 
I  felt  about  in  the  dark  as  if  I  'd  got  him.  And  I 
flung  my  arms  across  the  railing  as  if  it  was  I  flung 
him  over.  And  I  looked  down  as  if  I  see  him  going 
under.  And  I  watched  the  paddle-wheel  as  if  it 
dra-awed  him  in.  Bat  I  cursed  him,  for  I  hated 
him. 

I  think  I  had  a  sort  of  fever  in  my  brain,  for  I 
never  wanted  to  kill  a  creature  before  in  all  my  days. 
If  it  was  a  kitten  or  a  yellow  pup,  or  if  it  was  an  old 
hen,  I  did  n't  like  to  do  it.  But,  ma'am,  I  could 
have  wrung  his  neck,  or  I  could  have  stomped  on 
him,  or  if  I  'd  seen  him  under  a  locomotive  injine  I 
woiTld  n't  have  cared.  I  hated  Charley  Scattergood. 
I  wanted  him  to  die.  I  went  from  mad  to  murder  in 
my  heart,  upon  the  ferry-boat,  so  help  me  God. 

Ma'am,  where  do  you  think  them  things  come 
from,  plumb  !  into  a  man's  soul  ?  If  he  was  a  steady 
man  and  tried  to  do  his  dooty,  and  liked  his  fellow- 
creatures,  and  had  gentle  thoughts  like  other  folks 
and  never  wished  no  harm  to  no  man.  Seems  as  if  it 
was  a  brain  fever  —  when  you  love  a  girl.  Seems  as 
if  you  was  a  mad  man  —  if  it  is  a  girl.  Seems  as  if 
it  ain't  you  that  love  her  :  it 's  a  devil  or  an  angel 
loves  her  ;  and  he  angels  you  or  devils  you,  and  there 
vou  be ! 


214  A  BRAVE  DEED. 

"Well.  He  was  n't  on  the  ferry-boat.  He  was  set- 
ting there  beside  of  her  in  her  father's  setting-room. 
Drunk.     And  calling  of  her  Xan. 

So  I  did  n't  murder  him,  for  it  was  n't  hand}^ ;  and 
I  went  home,  for  my  sister  that  was  a  widder  lady 
made  me  some  catnip  tea  and  I  give  it  to  the  cat,  and 
so  I  went  to  bed,  and  went  to  sleep.  But  I  give  the 
tliec/_ytre  tickets  to  a  horse-car  driver  that  I  was  ac- 
quainted with  that  had  a  girl  that  squinted.  It 
seemed  a  pity  to  waste  'em. 

Now  that  night  there  come  a  storm.  It  was  a 
sleet-storm.  I  '11  tell  you  about  it.  It  sleeted  like 
the  Evil  all  that  night,  and  come  morning,  if  you 
was  to  look  out,  it  was  like  looking  on  a  world  of  ice 
that  made  you  think  of  a  creature  frozen  dead ;  like 
it  was  the  corpse  of  a  world.  It  was  the  worst  sleet- 
storm  we  had  that  winter,  for  I  had  a  reason  to  re- 
member. 

I  said  I  'd  tell  you  what  a  trouble  man  is.  He  's 
one  of  them  detailed  to  pick  out  trouble  —  that 's  the 
Avay  the  name  come  to  be  given  to  us.  The  telephone 
business  is  a  mighty  accidental  business  ;  something 
happens  all  the  time.  First  you  know  your  lines 
won't  work.  Maybe  you  sent  a  message  and  it 
sticks  somewheres.  It 's  the  trouble  men  that  have 
to  find  out  wheres.  They  keep  us  for  that  purpose. 
That 's  our  job.  It  ain't  an  easy  job.  "Wheresom- 
ever  and  hovvsomever  that  line  's  out  of  kilter,  from 
Boston  to  California,  that 's  our  business  to  find  out. 
IVIaybe  it's  broke  by  wind;  maybe  it  give  way  under 
the  ice ;  or  it 's  beaten  down  by  snow  ;  or  it 's  struck 
by  lightning ;  or  it 's  crossed  somewheres  by  some- 
body else's   accident,  —  some   telegraph   company's 


A  BRAVE  DEED.  215 

had  bad  luck  and  tied  you  up ;  or  it'  s  got  catched  be- 
neath a  bridge,  for  we  have  to  work  under  water  as 
well  as  over  air ;  and  you  would  n't  believe  it  of  a 
telephone  wire,  how  it  can  snarl  if  it  sets  out. 
There  's  nothing  equals  the  snarling  power  of  a  tele- 
phone wire  as  I  know  of  unless  it 's  a  woman  with 
the  neurology.  Seems  as  if  them  wires  were  so  many 
men-folks  trying  to  crochet;  they  don't  take  the 
reg'lar  stitch,  but  they  use  up  a  lot  of  yarn  in  mak- 
ing of  the  most  extra-ordinary  pattern.  They're 
pretty  stiff,  and  they  slash  about  a  good  deal  in  wind 
and  water. 

Did  you  ever  happen  to  think,  ma'am,  of  a  slip- 
pery winter  morning,  what  it  would  be  like  if  you 
was  in  our  business  ?  There 's  more  business  goes 
on  over  your  heads  these  days  than  there  is  upon  the 
ground  below.  I  don't  think  folks  do  think  much 
about  it.  There  's  a  sight  of  pity  goes  to  sailors  and 
such-like  and  firemen  and  those,  and  I  'm  not  denying 
they  deserve  it.  But  our  business  ain't  so  well  un- 
derstood in  folks'  mind  to  feel  a  sympathy  for  line- 
men. Sometimes  seems  to  me  we  have  a  call  for  it, 
ourselves,  for  it  ain't  a  very  safe  business.  It  ain't 
so  much  pluck  —  though  it  does  take  pluck — but 
pluck  ain't  anything  to  complain  of. 

Now,  come  a  morning  after  such  a  storm  as  this  I 
speak  about.  There 's  ice  everywhere.  Your  steps 
are  slippery.  All  the  sidewalks  are  covered  by  ashes 
for  peril  of  your  bones.  Horses  go  down  in  the 
street.  The  tops  of  the  fences  and  the  door-knobs 
and  all  sorts  of  little  things  are  sleeted  over.  The 
trees  have  crusted  up  like  they  'd  got  into  a  bathing 
suit  of  ice  from  toe  to  top.     The  roof  —  well  folks 


216  A   BRA  VE  DEED. 

don't  think  about  roofs.  Theij  are  all  of  a  glare. 
That 's  the  kind  of  weather  folks  stay  indoors,  if  so 
be  they  can.  Women  huddle  round  the  register  and 
say :  "  I  guess  I  won't  go  out  to-day."  Men  go  to 
their  business  in  the  horse-cars,  and  talk  about  how 
slippery  it  is.  In  the  evening  paper  there 's  the  ac- 
cidental column  —  full  of  how  such  a  one  slipped  on 
the  pavement  and  how  his  leg  was  broken,  or  his 
back  was  hurt. 

Way  down  below  us  whilst  we  are  at  work  we  see 
folks  putting  saw-dust  on  level  places  and  holding  on 
to  something  whilst  they  go  by.  They  look  kind  of 
small  as  we  look  down,  like  creatures  that  grow  on 
something.  Maybe  we  're  out  on  the  eaves  crawling 
along  toward  the  eaves-trough  to  get  a  wire  that  got 
down  acrost  a  water-spout ;  or  maybe  we  're  droppin' 
from  one  roof  to  t'  other,  or  we  're  holding  on  to  a 
chimney,  or  there 's  a  pole  to  climb  beyond 'em  all  — 
a  roof-pole  you  must  climb,  and  you  put  your  spurs 
in  and  go  up  clinging  to  that  pole,  to  guy  a  wire 
over  or  to  untwist  some  trouble,  and  slippery — by 
gracious  !  Slippery  don't  tell  it.  It 's  all  glared 
over  —  roof,  pole,  eaves,  wires,  pins  and  insulators^ 
the  skylights  you  go  out  of,  the  slates  you  crawl 
acrost,  the  tire-escape  you  hang  onto  —  and  you  feel 
the  ice  melting  underneath  your  fingers,  for  your 
hands  get  numb.  Then  the  wind  —  Lord  !  how  the 
wind  blows  from  the  nor'ard  after  a  sleet-storm,  on  a 
seven-story  roof  ! 

That 's  the  weather  when  a  lineman  has  to  work. 
Come  a  day  when  it  ain't  safe  to  put  foot  acrost  your 
door-sill  on  the  solid  earth,  that's  the  very  day  the 
linemen  have  to  crawl  like  kids  and  cats  hundreds  of 


A  BBAVE  DEED.  217 

feet  above  you  in  the  air,  balancing  and  holding  of 
themselves  for  life's  sake  and  the  sake  of  your  tele- 
phone message  against  they  slip  and  go.  If  he  was 
to  make  one  misstep  he  'd  be  to  pieces  on  the  pave- 
ment before  you  could  say  :  "  There  's  a  lineman  ! " 
There 's  no  hope  for  you  if  once  you  slip.  If  you 
ain't  a  dead  man,  you  're  worse.  Your  back  's  broke 
or  it 's  laid  you  up  for  life.  Lucky  for  you  if  you 
knocked  your  brains  out  and  done  with.  Your 
widder'll  get  on  better  than  if  she  got  a  cripple  to 
support,  her  and  him  and  the  children  too. 

Now  this  day  I  tell  you  of,  this  sleety  day,  I  woke, 
for  I  was  miserable  in  my  mind,  and  I  reported  to 
headquarters  for  any  orders  for  the  day.  It  was  a 
terrible  slippery  day.  But  I  thought  maybe  it  did  n't 
iraA':ter,  for  I  was  so  miserable  along  of  Annie  and 
him  that  had  got  my  girl  away  from  me.  I  hated 
him.  I  had  hated  him  over  night  and  I  hated,  him 
come  morning,  and  I  hate  —  hate  —  hated  him  as  I 
walked  along,  that  way,  as  you'd  march  to  music. 
My  hate  and  me  kept  step  because  of  him  and  Annie. 

Now  this  is  the  way  we  do  it.  They  send  us  out 
according  to  the  job,  and  if  there 's  four  or  five  of  us, 
we  're  what  you  call  a  crew.  If  there  's  a  good  many 
needed  for  any  purpose,  you  'd  say  we  were  a  force. 
But  a  trouble  man  he  may  go  alone  ;  he  may  be  by 
himself,  it  might  so  happen  to  him  to  be  mending 
trouble  somewheres  by  himself.  You  might  be  a 
trouble  man  and  you  might  see  a  lot  of  poles  blowed 
down,  —  for  when  one  goes  sometimes  the  rest  go 
like  as  they  were  cards  set  up,  —  and  you  might  go 
and  notify  the  chief,  and  he  'd  send  a  force  to  mend 
the  trouble,  but  you  he  might  send  maybe  to  some 


218  A  BRAVE  DEED. 

point  apart,  to  set  some  mischief  right  you'd  set 
your  eye  on.  Maybe  you  'd  go  to  a  pole  to  guy  it 
over  —  that 's  to  fasten  it  over  to  another  pole  —  to 
keep  it  steady  and  to  mend  the  break,  and  to  stop 
the  rest  from  going,  and  maybe  you  might  be  up  to 
top  of  this  pole  by  yourself  alone,  and  it  might  be  it 
was  a  high  pole,  don't  you  see  ?  and  there  you  are. 

Now  then,  this  day  I  speak. of,  I  was  ordered  to 
the  South  End,  for  there  'd  been  the  havoc  to  pay  up 
along  there  in  the  region  of  the  city  hospital,  Avhere 
those  high  poles  are  —  we've  got  some  beautiful 
poles  at  the  South  End.  So  my  chief  he  sent  me  to 
pick  out  trouble  way  out  towards  Koxbury,  for  the 
wires  were  down  along  of  the  sleet -storm  and  we 
were  pretty  busy — and  all  at  once,  for  I  was  going 
by,  I  see  a  horse-car  driver  stop  his  car  and  point 
his  whip  upwards  over  yonder  behind  me,  and  I 
turned  and  looked.  And  then  I  see  folks  staring  and 
two  or  three  they  stopped,  and  we  all  looked  up. 

And  then  I  see  a  sight  I  never  saw  before  nor  I 
don't  know 's  I  'd  care  to  see  it  every  January  morn- 
ing neither. 

It  was  a  very  high  pole.  I  knew  that  pole.  I  'd 
been  up  it,  time  again.  It  was  an  eighty-foot  pole. 
It  was  all  glared  over  with  the  ice,  and  it  shook 
against  the  wind.     The  wires  were  down. 

Up  at  the  top  of  that  there  pole  there  was  a  man. 
I  'd  ought  to  say  there  hung  a  man,  for  quick  as  I 
set  eyes  on  him  I  knew  it  was  all  up  with  that  man. 
It  was  a  trouble  man  gone  up  to  guy  the  pole  over, 
and  he  'd  gone  alone,  for  nobody  was  with  him  only 
the  force  to  work  to  the  north'ards,  where  the  other 
poles  had  all  gone  down. 


A  BRAVE  DEED.  219 

My  heart  come  into  my  mouth  when  I  saw  that 
man,  and  my  marrow  froze  within  me,  for  when  I 
looked,  I  saw  him  fling  his  arms  —  that  way  —  and 
topple.  When  I  saw  him,  for  he  fell  for'ards  on  his 
face  against  the  cross-arms  of  the  poles,  both  arms 
about  it,  and  kind  of  come  together  like  a  jack-knife 
—  so  —  and  there  he  hung,  as  helpless  and  as  sense- 
less as  the  buried  dead,  him  eighty  feet  above  the 
ground. 

"  He 's  dead  !  "  cries  the  horse-car  driver.  But  the 
conductor  said  :  — 

"  He  's  drunk  !  " 

"  He 's  in  a  faint !  "  cries  somebody. 

"  He 's  in  a  fit ! "  says  some  one. 

"  He 's  got  the  cramp ! "  I  heard  a  fellow  say. 

"  He 's  froze  with  the  weather !  "  says  a  woman 
going  by. 

"  God  have  mercy  on  him  !  "  says  they  all. 

"  He  '11  drop  —  he  '11  drop  in  a  minute  "  — 

"  There  ! "  says  they.     <'  Oh,  look  at  him." 

II. 

I  made  short  work  of  it,  pushing  everybody  by, 
for  I  ran,  and  it  was  slippery,  and  it  took  me  longer 
than  it  would  of  a  different  day,  but  no  man,  unless  it 
was  a  lineman,  could  have  got  there  so  quick  for  be- 
ing practiced  at  it,  and  I  ran  and  I  looked  up  and 
when  I  looked  up  —  ma'am,  I  went  as  cold  as  the  ice 
beneath  me,  and  then  I  turned  from  cold  to  hot  and 
then  I  went  from  hot  to  horror,  for  the  sight  I  saw. 

Ma'am,  it  was  him  I  saw  —  it  was  Charley  Scatter- 
good. 


220  A    BRAVE  DEED. 

It  was  him  atop  of  that  there  pole,  hanging  sense- 
less eighty  foot  above  my  head,  across  the  cross- 
arms.  It  was  him  I  hate  —  hate  —  hated  from  my 
soul.  It  was  him  that  sent  me  on  from  mad  to  mur- 
der when  I  thought  of  him.  It  was  him  I  could 
have  stomped  on  or  see  beneath  an  injine  or  flung 
over  the  ferry-boat  and  get  beneath  the  paddle- 
wheel.  It  was  him.  It  was  him  that  took  my  girl 
away  from  me. 

Now  I  '11  have  to  explain  to  you.  I  '11  have  to 
explain  to  you  about  that  guy.  You  could  n't  un- 
derstand the  nature  of  my  feelings  unless  you  under- 
stood the  situation  of  that  pole  and  guy. 

You  see  it 's  this  way.  You  've  got  a  line  of  poles 
—  there  —  see?  And  you've  got  another  connec- 
tion —  there.  Maybe  you  guy  over  to  a  roof  or  to 
another  row  —  so. 

And  if  your  guy  breaks,  your  poles  might  begin  to 
go  the  way  I  told  you,  like  a  row  of  nine-pins  from 
the  storm.  And  they  've  all  gone  down,  we  '11  say, 
like  these  had,  five  or  six  of  'em,  in  the  gale,  it 
blowed  so,  and  this  one,  it 's  made  a  stand.  This 
one  stood  its  ground  and  there  it  is,  all  them  broken 
wires  dangling  and  groaning  in  the  ice  and  wind, 
and  a  trouble  man  he  's  sent  up  to  guy  it  over  to  this 
roof  or  to  this  other  pole  I  tell  you  of,  to  make  it  fast 
and  stop  the  rest  from  going.  IMaybe  he  guys  it  over 
to  a  stump  —  that 's  what  we  call  a  broken  pole  — 
and  he  has  the  wires  to  tie,  and  he  has  his  strap-and- 
vice  to  join  'em  with,  and  his  pliers  to  twist  'em  with, 
and  his  spurs  upon  his  legs  —  and  that 's  all  he  has 
except  his  pluck  and  the  ice-storm. 

So  I  see  in  a  minute  Charlev  Scattergood  had  been 


A  BRAVE  DEED.  221 

up  to  guy  that  pole  over,  and  I  see  it  was  n't  done  — 
it  wasn't  guyed  over  —  when  he  was  taken  with 
whatever  took  him ;  for  I  saAV  the  pole  shook  con- 
sider'ble  and  that  the  wires  hung  flabby,  and,  ma'am, 
I  saw  another'  thing,  I  saw  the  pole  was  a  cracked 
pole.     They  are  sometimes. 

Kow  it  takes  me  a  great  while  to  tell  you  these 
here  things  because  I  ain't  an  educated  man,  but  it 
did  n't  take  me  long  enough  to  think  'em  —  not  so 
long  as  if  you  was  to  say  :  "  Charley  Scattergood !  " 
If  I  was  an  educated  man  I  could  explain  to  you 
the  nature  of  my  feelings.  You've  got  learning 
yourself,  and  maybe  you  can  understand  'em  without 
I  was  to  tell  'em  —  maybe  that 's  what  learning  does 
for  folks.     I  don't  know. 

But,  ma'am,  though  they  did  n't  take  time  they 
took  my  mortal  life  —  the  feelings  that  I  had.  It 
seemed  as  if  I'd  die  of  'em  before  it  all  went 
through  my  mind :  — 

"  That 's  him.  That 's  Charley  Scattergood.  He 
took  your  girl  away  from  you.  He's  a  miserable 
drinkin'  cuss.  He  '11  drop.  You  ain't  nothing  to  do 
with  it. 

"  Those  other  linemen  are  too  far  off.  He  '11  drop 
before  they  get  here.  Nor  they  would  n't  go  up.  I 
don't  know  a  feller  on  that  crew  would  go  up.  It 's 
a  cracked  pole.  .  .  .  You  did  n't  do  it.  It  ain't  j/our 
work.  You  did  n't  hang  Charley  Scattergood  eighty 
foot  above  the  ground,  him  senseless  on  a  cross-arm. 
You  ain't  got  to  do  nothing  but  let  him  be.  It 's 
God  A'mighty's-  business." 

Now  when  I  got  so  far  as  God  A'mighty,  it  did 
seem  as  if  the  feelings  that  I  had  would  kill  me.     It 


222  A  BE  AVE  DEED. 

seemed  like  I  'd  die  before  lie  would.  It  seemed  like 
I  'd  be  tore  in  twenty.  Seems  as  if  the  Last  Trum- 
pet and  the  Day  of  Judgment  and  the  Great  White 
Throne,  and  all  them  things  we  read  about  in  the 
Good  Book,  you  know,  kind  of  got  together  in  a 
crew  and  made  a  dead  set  at  me.  iSeems  as  if  they 
said :  — 

"  Go  up  !     Go  up  !     Go  up  ! " 

Then  it  seems  as  if  I  answered  :  — 

"  Don't  you  do  it !     Stay  where  you  be  ! " 

And  then  it  come  :  — 

"  Go  up  !     Go  up  !  " 

And  then  I  says  :  — 

"  It  ain't  my  business.     It 's  God  A'mighty's." 

And  then :  — 

"  It  ain't  God  A'mighty's.  It 's  your  business. 
Go  up  !     Go  up  !  " 

And  then  it  comes  to  me  this  way,  crash  !  like  a 
charge  of  electricity  in  a  thunder-shower  :  — 

"  As  layin''  between  God  Almighty  and  Charles  S. 
Scattergood,  which  is  the  lineman  of  them  two  ? 
Him  that  is  the  lineman,  it 's  his  dooty  to  climb  that 
poleP 

Ma'am,  w^e  're  taught  to  do  our  dooty  in  our  busi- 
ness and  obey  our  orders,  and  once  it  was  clear  to  me 
in  that  minute  —  for  all  this  only  took  no  time  at  all 
to  go  through  me  —  once  it  was  plain  to  me  I  'd  got 
my  order  and  I  'd  got  it  from  the  Chief  —  from 
t'  other  Chief  that  sends  a  sleet-storm  and  blows  a 
gale  easy  as  ours  would  set  in  his  office  and  send  a 
message  out  acrost  a  wire  —  once  I  understood  it  was 
my  dooty,  I  say  no  more  about  it.  I  set  my  spurs 
into  that  pole  and  I  went  \\\).  .  .  . 


A  BRAVE  DEED.  223 

A  brave  deed  you  say  ?  Well.  I  don't  know.  It 
did  n't  strike  me  so.  It  was  uiy  dooty.  That  was 
all  about  it.  I  did  n't  think  about  it  pertikkelerly. 
I  'd  got  my  orders. 

So  I  went  up,  for  it  all  took  quick  as  I  could  think 
it.  And  I  did  the  best  I  could.  That 's  all.  It  was 
pretty  slippery.  Yes.  And  I  knew  the  pole  was  n't 
sound.  Yes.  And  he  'd  taken  my  girl  away  from 
me.  Yes.  But  there  wasn't  anything  said  about 
that  in  the  order.     So  I  went. 

Now  it 's  this  way.  You  know  what  a  cross-arm 
is.  You  've  seen  'em  on  the  telephone  poles,  and  the 
telegraph.  They  run  acrost  the  top  and  hold  the 
oak  pins  and  the  insulators.  Each  cross-arm  might 
have  ten  pins  to  screw  the  insulators  on.  There 
may  be  one  or  two,  there  may  be  six  or  more  of  these 
cross-arms.  This  pole  it  was  a  tall  pole  and  in  the 
thick  of  business  —  there  might  be  maybe  eighty  to 
a  hundred  wires  on  such  a  pole  —  and  it  had  eight 
cross-arms,  and  Charley  Scattergood  he  hung  acrost 
the  highest  of  'em  all,  the  top  one,  doubled  over  — 
that  way.  I  couldn't  help  thinking  as  I  went  up 
how  like  a  rag  doll  he  looked  hanging  acrost  a  close- 
horse  —  for  it  was  so  high  and  he  looked  small. 

I  stuck  my  spurs  in  hard,  for  it  was  slippery  as 
death,  and  from  the  excitement  and  from  knowing 
that  the  pole  was  n't  sound  it  seemed  as  if  I  could  n't 
make  a  footing,  and  I  thought  of  Annie,  for  I  loved 
her,  and  I  felt  bad  to  think  if  so  we  both  come  crash- 
ing down,  she  'd  feel  worse  to  think  it  was  Charley 
Scattergood  than  she  would  for  thinking  it  was  me. 

But  I  said,  for  I  felt  a  little  giddy  and  it  blew  so, 
as  I  went  vip,  I  said  :  — 


224  A  BRAVE  DEED. 

"Annie,  Annie  Hope,"  just  as  I've  always  said  to 
keep  a  steady  head. 

Heaven  bless  her  dear  name,  ma'am,  whether  it 
steadied  me  as  it  always  had,  I  don't  know  as  I  can 
prove  to  you,  not  being  an  educated  man  —  but  I  felt 
steadier  for  saying  of  it,  and  for  feeling  of  the  feel- 
ing that  made  me  say  it. 

"  Annie.  Dear  Annie.  Annie  Hope,"  —  for  the 
loving  feeling  that  I  had  to  her,  and  it  was  like  as 
if  my  love  turned  into  nerve,  ma'am,  while  I  went 
up,  and  turned  into  firm  muscles  and  into  a  cool 
brain  and  into  all  those  things  a  lineman  needs  if 
he 's  got  a  deed  like  that  to  do  to  save  a  fellow-cree- 
tur's  life,  or  maybe  give  his  own.  And  it  was  like 
as  if  the  love  I  had  turned  out  the  hate  I  had.  And 
all  my  soul  went  up,  as  my  body  was  going  up  that 
pole.  It  was  as  if  I  left  my  deadly  feelings  down 
below  upon  the  ground,  and  I  went  from  murder  up 
to  mercy  as  I  climbed  to-ward  the  sky  upon  the  pole. 

Now  this  is  the  holy  truth.  I  'd  never  been  so 
keen  to  hurt  him  as  I  was  to  save  him  before  I  got 
to  him.  I  'd  never  wished  him  half  such  curses  as  I 
prayed  Heaven  I  might  do  liim  blessin's  and  get  him 
down  a  living  man.     And  I  says  to  myself :  — 

"  If  we  topple  and  go  down  together  I  won't  re- 
port at  Headquarters  for  a  murderer.  Lord  Chief 
A'mighty  may  He  forgive  me,  but  He  sha'n't  catch 
me  there ! " 

So  it  blew  pretty  hard,  and  I  got  up.  And  every- 
thing was  covered  with  ice.  And  my  spurs  slipped. 
And  my  hands  got  pretty  numb.  But  I  got  up.  And 
I  catched  hold  of  him  and  I  felt  the  pole  quiver,  and 
I  held  on  to  him  and  there  he  was. 


A  BRAVE  DEED.  225 

He  'd  had  a  fit.  The  feller  'd  had  a  fit.  And  there 
he  hung  acrost  the  upper  cross-arms  with  no  more 
knowledge  than  the  dead.  And  I  looked  at  him. 
But  I  'd  left  my  hate  eighty  foot  below  us,  and  it  was 
as  if  I  liked  him,  for  I  wanted  so  to  save  him,  and  I 
looked  to  see  what  I  could  do,  for  he  showed  some 
signs  of  coming  to. 

So  I  says :  — 

"  Charley  Scattergood,  for  the  love  of  God,  don't 
you  stir.     Stay  where  you  be  till  I  tie  you  on." 

Now  I  had  my  pliers  with  me  in  my  belt  in  the 
sort  of  pocket  where  we  carry  'em,  and  I  see  the 
broken  wires,  hanging  round,  and  I  remembered  that 
I  had  some  wire  with  me,  a  roll  I  'd  had  to  do  some 
guying  with.  So  I  took  that  wire,  for  it  was  strong- 
est, and  I  twisted  it  around  him,  and  I  fastened  him 
tight  with  my  pliers,  and  I  twisted  the  other  wires 
around  him,  and  I  tied  him  tight,  and  then  I  looked 
to  see  what  next. 

I  wanted  to  guy  that  pole  over,  for  it  might  have 
saved  us,  and  I  tried,  but  do  my  best  I  could  n't  do  it, 
him  being  in  my  way,  and  the  pole  so  shaky,  and  I 
see  I  couldn't,  and  then  I  drawed  my  breath  and 
looked  below. 

I  don't  think  it  had  come  Over  me  till  that  min- 
ute what  a  fix  it  was.  But  when  I  looked  down  I 
saw  the  people,  for  they  'd  come  from  everywheres, 
and  there  Avas  quite  a  crowd,  and  I  saw  the  linemen 
that  had  run  up  from  the  nearest  crew,  and  I  see 
they  were  all  discussing  of  my  situation.  And  they 
tried  to  advise  me  this  and  that,  for  I  could  see 
'em  holler,  but  the  wind  blew  so  I  could  n't  make  out 
a  word.     And  all  at  once  it  come  to  me  :  — 


226  A  BRAVE  DEED. 

"  How  in  God's  name  are  you  going  to  get  Miu 
down  ?  " 

"  Anybody  got  a  rope  ?  "  cried  I. 

But  nobody  could  hear  rae,  and  I  tried  again. 

"  Anybody  happen  to  have  any  more  wire  about 
him  ?  " 

And  one  of  the  trouble  men  he  understood  me,  and 
he  sort  of  beckoned  to  me,  and  held  up  both  arms,  and 
I  see  he  had  a  coil  of  wire  and  a  coil  of  rope  betwixt 
his  two  hands,  and  I  see  there  was  n't  any  other  way, 
and  so  I  went  down  the  pole.  I  went  some  fifty  foot 
or  so,  for  it  was  slow  work,  and  I  looked  every  min- 
ute to  come  dashing  down.  So  some  of  'em  climbed 
on  something,  a  cart  or  something,  and  got  one  on 
t'  other's  shoulders,  for  no  man  dared  to  add  an  ounce 
weight  extry  to  that  splitting  pole  with  us  two  on  it 

—  and  they  flung  me  up  the  wire  and  the  ropes,  and 
so  I  caught  'em  and  took  'em,  and  climbed  up  again. 

Yes.  I  went  aloft  again.  I  did  n't  see  no  other 
way.     I  could  n't  leave  him  there,  you  see.    Plucky  ? 

—  I  don't  know.  It  Avas  my  dooty.  I  tried  to  do  it. 
That 's  all  there  was  to  it.  It  is  n't  much  to  tell  of, 
come  to  tell  it. 

So  I  went  up  and  I  untied  him,  and  I  got  the  rope 
about  him,  and  I  plied  the  wire  to  it,  till  I  had  the 
length  to  risk  it  —  but  the  wind  blew  pretty  hard, 
and  Lord  !  how  that  pole  did  begin  to  shake. 

Well,  he  come  to  a  little,  not  so  's  to  help  himself, 
but  enough  so  's  not  to  hender  me,  and  I  said ;  — 

"  Charley,  you  're  took  with  something,  and  I  've 
got  to  swing  you  down,  for  the  pole  's  rotten.  If  you 
valfy  your  life  —  or  mine  either  —  don't  you  darst 
to  do  nothing,  but  do  as  I  tell  you."     For  I  knew  if 


A  BE  AVE  DEED.  227 

he  was  to  wrastle  or  even  to  wriggle,  it  would  be  all 
up  with  both  of  us. 

So  T  think  he  sensed  it,  for  he  seemed  to,  and  I 
made  him  fast,  and  I  began  to  lower  of  him  down 
ahead  of  me,  me  descending  above  him  best  I  could, 
and  he  hung  quite  still,  and  behaved  extra-ordinarily 
well,  for  a  fitty  man.  My  idea  was,  if  I  found  we 
was  going,  I  'd  play  out  the  whole  of  the  cable  fast, 
and  some  of  'em  would  catch  him  before  the  pole 
went  down. 

"Well,  I  did  it.  I  don't  know  's  I  know  exactly 
how.  But  I  got  the  feller  down.  I  got  him  down  as 
far  as  thirty  foot  or  so  above  the  ground,  when  all  at 
once  I  felt  it  coming. 

That  there  pole  begun  to  swing  this  way  and  that 
way,  —  the  way  a  tree  will  when  it 's  going  to  fall  — 
this  way  and  t'  other  way,  —  and  I'  knew  it  was  com- 
ing —  and  I  cries  out :  — 

"  There  he  goes  !  I  can't  do  nothing  more  for  him  ! 
Catch  him  some  of  ye  ! "  and  I  played  his  rope  out, 
and  I  let  him  go,  and  he  come  down  gentle  as  a  sick 
man  that  had  a  little  fall  upon  the  floor  —  and  then 
I  heard  the  s-s-crash  !  go  through  the  grain  of  that 
pine  pole  —  and  jumped  for  my  life,  and  me  and  it 
come  down  together. 

It  don't  seem  much  to  tell,  now,  does  it  ?  That 's 
all  there  is  of  it.  It  makes  me  kind  of  ashamed  to 
tell  it  —  as  if  there  was  something  to  tell. 

"Why,  yes  —  if  you  want  to  know  what  happened  to 
me  —  next  thing  I  knew  I  did  n't  know  anything,  by 
gracious.  I  come  crashing  on  my  head,  folks  said, 
and  they  picked  me  up,  and  says :  — 

"He's  dead." 


228  A  BE  AVE  DEED. 

But  Charley  Scattergood,  a  policeman  took  him  to 
the  hospital ;  and  when  he  got  well  he  give  up  being 
a  Boston  lineman,  and  he  went  to  —  No,  ma'am, 
I  'm  not  wishing  to  be  profane  in  a  lady's  house. 
He  went  to  New  York  city. 

So  next  I  knew  I  opened  my  eyes  one  day  and  I 
see  my  sister  that  was  the  widder  lady  coming  in 
the  door.     And  she  says  :  — 

"  Mercy,  Charles,  you  've  come  to,  hain't  you  ?  " 
And  I  saw  I  was  to  home,  and  I  felt  quite  smart  only 
for  the  bandage  on  my  head  and  for  being  as  weak 
as  a  drownded  puppy  beneath  the  bed-close.  And 
my  sister  says  :  — 

"  There  's  a  young  lady  in  the  setting-room,  come 
to  inquire  after  your  health,"  she  says.  "  She 's  got 
a  green  dress  trimmed  with  feather  trimming,"  says 
my  sister. 

"  Tell  her  I  'm  much  obliged  to  her,"  says  I,  "  and 
that  I  take  it  for  an  honor." 

So  my  sister  goes  and  tells  her,  and  in  she  comes 
again. 

"  The  young  lady  's  crying,"  says  my  sister. 

"  Dear,  dear,"  says  I. 

"  And  she  says  to  ask  you  if  you  're  willing  for  to 
see  her  a  minute,  me  setting  in  the  room  beside  of 
her,"  my  sister  says. 

And  I  says  : — 

"  For  a  minute  or  forever  —  she  knows  that  will- 
ing ain't  the  word,"  says  I. 

So  back  my  sister  goes,  and  in  they  come,  her  and 
Annie  close  behind  her.     And  my  sister  says  :  — 

"  This  is  the  young  lady." 

And  I  says  :  — 


A  BRAVE  DEED.  229 

"  I  'd  a  ben  shaved  if  I  'd  known  you  was  coming, 
my  dear." 

And  my  sister  says  :  — 

"  I  '11  go  and  see  the  barber  about  it  this  minute. 
I  '11  have  him  come  over  after  dinner,  if  the  young 
lady  Avill  excuse  me  half  a  second." 

I  took  it  very  kind  of  my  sister,  for  Annie 
could  n't  speak,  she  cried  so  —  she  could  n't  speak  a 
word.  And  when  we  was  alone  together,  I  looked 
up,  for  I  felt  pretty  weak,  and  I  could  have  cried 
myself  to  see  my  dear  girl  how  she  looked,  for  she 
was  pale  and  miserable  to  see. 

"  I  hain't  slept  day  nor  night  since  I  heard  of  it," 
sobs  she.     "  I  like  to  died  myself,"  says  she. 

And  I  says  :  — 

"  Why,  Annie  ! " 

"  Oh,  do7i't !  "  says  she. 

And  I  says  :  — 

"  Crying  for  me,  Annie  ?  —  Crying  so  for  me  ?  " 

"Oh,  dear,"  she  says.  "Oh,  dear,  dear,  dear! 
I  'm  ashamed  of  myself,"  she  says. 

"I  never  called  upon  a  gentleman  before,"  she 
says,  "  but  if  I  did  n't  know  you  would  forgive  me  I 
should  die  !  "  she  says.  "  I  hope  you  won't  think 
the  worse  of  me  for  coming.  I  ain't  a  forward  girl," 
she  says. 

So  I  held  out  my  hand  to  her,  for  I  could  n't  an- 
swer her.  I  could  n't  someways.  I  took  it  so,  that 
she  could  cry  like  that  for  me.  And  she  put  hers 
into  it  as  if  it  had  been  a  little  bird  she  gave  me, 
and  she  stopped  crying,  and  she  says  :  — 

"I  never  thought  you  'd  make  me  ask  you  ! " 

And  I  says  :  — 


230  A  BRAVE  DEED. 

"  "What  in  God's  name  do  you  mean,  my  dear  ? 
For  I  ain't  very  strong.     Don't  make  game  of  me." 

And  she  lifted  up  her  pretty  face  that  was  all  girl 
to  me  —  her  dear  face  that  had  the  dimple  on  it,  and 
the  tears  — 

And  it  seemed  as  if  she  did  and  did  n't ;  it  seemed 
as  if  she  would  and  would  n't ;  it  seemed  as  if  she 
should  and  should  n't  —  the  way  a  woman  does. 
But  she  said  :  — 

"  If  you  '11  have  me,  I  '11  marry  you  to-morrow." 

"  Don't  fool  me,  dear,"  I  said.     And  she  said  :  — 

"  No,  I  won't  fool  you.  I  won't  marry  you  to- 
morrow. I  '11  marry  you  to-day,  so 's  I  can  take 
care  of  you  and  not  lose  a  minute,  and  nobody  to 
hinder." 

And  Heaven  bless  her  —  so  she  did. 

Come  now!  I  see  just  what  you're  thinking  in 
your  mind.  I  see  it  very  plain.  Did  n't  she  prove 
half  plague,  half  comfort  —  half  lovin',  half  teasin' 
—  half  flirtin',  half  coaxin'  —  that  kind  ? 

Ma'am,  you  are  mistaken.  Since  my  girl  become 
my  wife,  she 's  been  all  tvife  to  me. 


THE  SACEIFICE  OF  ANTIGONE. 

Pkofessor  Kosmos,  ex-professor  of  classic  and 
modern  Greek  at  the  leading  university  of  the  coun- 
try, hurried  into  the  restaurant  and  sat  down  at  his 
usual  table.  Professor  Kosmos  was  probably  the 
only  man  in  the  land  who  had  been  forced  to  aban- 
don a  professorship  for  a  property.  His  inheritance 
was  large  and  unexpected ;  and  the  cutting  of  cou- 
pons and  the  pursuance  of  an  unsalaried  Greek-  en- 
thusiasm now  occupied  his  life.  His  long-looked-for 
volume  on  ''  Diogenes  in  His  Tub  "  was  in  press  for 
the  fall  market.  The  Professor  was  now  at  leisure 
to  concentrate  his  whole  nature  upon  the  revival  of 
ancient  Greek  oratory  in  Yankee  schools. 

Thurston's  restaurant  was  well  known  about 
town.  There  lunched  the  busy  brokers  and  capital- 
ists of  the  city  ;  and  there  the  literary  millionaire, 
being  a  phenomenon,  was  well  known. 

The  ProfessQi'  glanced  over  the  bill  of  fare  with 
a  dissatisfied  expression,  as  he  balanced  his  book 
against  the  sugar-bowl.  The  Professor  always  car- 
ried a  book  (and  Greek  at  that).  Nothing  suited  his 
scholarly  taste  that  noon. 

With  an  Athenian  sigh  he  called  for  olives  —  and 
the  waitress  added  crackers  on  her  own  responsibil- 
ity.    She  had  waited  on  the  Professor  before. 

If  the  Professor  had  possessed  the  human  rather 


232  THE  SACRIFICE  OF  ANTIGONE. 

than  the  Hellenic  temperament  he  would  have  stud- 
ied that  waitress  sympathetically  long  before  now. 
As  it  was  he  liked  her  unconsciously.  She  was  so 
modest,  she  was  so  quiet  —  in  short,  she  was  so  un- 
like the  usual  young  lady  who  banged  (in  every 
sense)  her  way  to  a  man's  palate,  that  not  to  feel 
her  presence  pleasantly  was  impossible. 

Now  the  thing  which  the  customer  had  not  no- 
ticed until  to-day  was  the  pallor  of  the  waitress  ; 
the  pallor  of  poverty  and  hardship,  —  a  color  star- 
tling, as  the  girl  stood  in  the  strong  light  balancing 
on  her  slender  hands  a  hea\y  trayful  of  roast  and 
salad  china  from  the  next  table,  where  four  men  had 
just  expensively  dined. 

"  Come  here  !  "  The  Professor  beckoned ;  he  did 
not  like  to  snap  his  fingers  at  this  girl ;  he  did  not 
like  to  call  her  Polly  or  Molly  —  in  fact,  he  did  not 
know  her  name.  The  girl  answered  his  summons 
quickly  and  quietly. 

"  You  look  ready  to  drop,"  said  the  Professor,  in 
a  savage  undertone. 

"  I  am  —  a  little  —  faint,"  said  the  girl ;  "  but  it 
is  n't  any  matter  ;  I  often  am." 

"  That  waiter  is  heavy  enough  for  an  Irishman  !  " 
growled  the  Professor.  "You're^ not  Irish,  are 
you  ?  "  he  proceeded,  with  the  want  of  tact  not  un- 
common with  scholars. 

"  No,  sir." 

The  girl  dropped  her  eyes  and  flushed  brightly ; 
but  a  twitch  of  amusement  tugged  at  the  corners  of 
her  sad  and  delicate  mouth. 

"  Give  me  that  thing  —  all  those  dishes  —  food 
enough  for  Xenophon's  army.     There  !  " 


THE  SACRIFICE  OF  ANTIGONE.  233 

Before  the  astonished  waitress  coukl  protest,  the 
big  Professor  had  seized  the  heavy  tray  and  stalked 
across  the  dining-room  with  it ;  his  waving  black 
beard  blew  in  the  draught  from  the  dumb  waiter,  as 
he  deposited  his  burden  haughtily,  and  returned 
with  long,  lean  strides  to  his  own  table,  as  uncon- 
scious that  the  eyes  of  all  Thurston's  were  upon 
him  as  Xenophon  himself. 

"  It 's  too  heavy  for  you,"  he  said  shortly.  "  jSTow 
get  me  a  cup  of  that  tea  I  like,  and  my  slice  of 
lemon,  please." 

The  girl,  scarlet  and  distressed,  flew  to  obey  his 
order.  When  she  returned,  with  the  steaming,  fra- 
grant Pekoe,  and  had  put  in  his  two  lumps  with  the 
little  plated  sugar-tongs  which  trembled  in  her  shak- 
ing fingers,  she  said,  in  a  Ioav  voice :  "  Professor 
Kosmos  ?  "  The  Professor  laid  down  his  book  in 
which  he  had  been  absorbed  during  the  tea  interval. 
"  I  thank  you,  sir.  It  was  kind  in  you ;  but  don't  — 
donH  do  that  again." 

"  And  pray  why  not,  my  child  ?  " 

"  It  might  make  the  other  girls  angry,  sir  —  and 
—  and  —  it  might  cost  me  my  place.  I  —  I  've  got 
to  keep  the  place,  sir ;  I  've  got  to  live  !  " 

Something  in  the  girl's  tone  made  the  scholar  lift 
his  head,  and  look  at  the  little  waitress  long  and 
searchingly.  She  was  as  pale  as  thin  porcelain  ;  the 
light  seemed  to  strike  through  her ;  veins  stood  out 
on  her  delicate  temples  and  thin  hands  ;  her  large, 
dark  eyes  appealed  to  him  like  a  dumb  animal's  ; 
they  were  set  deep  in  a  high,  full  brow,  back  from 
which  her  hair  was  brushed  severely  without  fuss  or 
friz.     "  Why,  here  is  a  forehead,"  thought  the  Pro- 


234  THE  SACRIFICE  OF  ANTIGONE. 

fessor.  He  had  never  really  looked  at  it  before. 
She  was  very  plainly  and  poorly  dressed  in  a  blue 
calico  and  white  apron,  and  she  wore  no  ornament  of 
any  kind,  not  even  a  flounce  or  a  frill. 

"  There,  there  !  "  muttered  the  Professor,  kindly. 
He  did  not  know  what  else  to  say.  He  shoved  back 
his  chair  and  took  his  hat  and  bowed  to  the  waitress, 
with  respect. 

Now  the  Professor  did  what  he  had  never  done 
before  —  forgot  his  book.  The  title  of  the  book 
was  in  full  sight :  'kvTiyovrj. 

**0h,  you  have  forgotten  your  'Antigone,'  sir," 
said  the  waitress  impulsively.  She  took  the  book 
with  a  certain  tenderness,  and  handed  it  to  him  with 
a  touch  expressing  both  the  familiarity  and  the  care- 
fulness of  a  reader. 

xsow,  indeed,  Professor  Kosmos  stared  at  his 
waitress.  The  last  one  he  had  at  Thurston's  slapped 
his  famous  English  translation  into  the  gravy  one 
day,  and  then  called  it  "  Anti-gone." 

When  the  Professor  came  to  Thurston's,  a  few 
days  after,  for  his  next  luncheon,  a  fat,  greasy  girl, 
with  bangs  and  a  red  jersey,  knocked  his  spectacles 
off  with  the  bill  of  fare,  and  peremptorily  demanded 
his  order. 

His  little  waitress  was  gone.  In  surprise  and 
real  distress  he  consulted  the  proprietor. 

"  We  don't  keep  girls  that  can't  carry  their  own 
trays,"  said  that  gentleman  shortly. 

"  But  it  was  no  fault  of  the  girrs,"  urged  the  cus- 
tomer. "  I  did  it,  and  you  '11  oblige  me,  Mr.  Thurs- 
ton, by  taking  her  back." 

The  proprietor  was  not  unaware  of  the  celebrated 


THE  SACRIFICE  OF  ANTIGONE.  235 

Greek  reputation  that  dined  off  his  olives  and 
cheese ;  and  he  replied  more  suavely  :  "  Why,  cer- 
tainly, to  oblige  you,  Professor,  if  I  can  find  her; 
but  these  girls  drop  out  of  sight  like  a  stone  in  a 
well.     We  don't  take  their  address." 

The  Professor  sighed.  He  felt  unaccountably 
sorry.  He  had  blundered  so  kindly.  He  went  oTer 
to  the  rival  restaurant  across  the  street,  and  lunched 
abstractedly  on  cold  corned  beef. 

A  few  nights  after,  a  reluctant  knock  rapped  at 
the  door  of  the  Professor's  eccentrically  plain  bach- 
elor lodgings.  It  was  the  hour  for  his  washer- 
woman, and  he  bawled,  "  Come  in,"  without  lifting 
his  eyes  from  his  copy  of  "  Agamemnon  at  the  Club," 
learnedly  proved  by  him  not  to  have  been  written 
by  Homer. 

A  slight  figure  in  a  waterproof  cloak,  and  wearing 
a  thick  veil  across  a  bowed  face,  timidly  entered  the 
study,  and  a  low  voice  said,  "  Here  are  your  clothes, 
sir ;  where  shall  I  find  the  soiled  ones,  if  you 
please  ? " 

The  Professor  whirled  in  his  revolving  study- 
chair. 

"  Where  in  —  Sparta  —  is  Mrs.  O'Hooligan  ?  She 
does  my  Avashing." 

"She  is  ill,  sir.  I've  taken  her  work,"  replied 
the  stranger  quickly. 

The  Professor  pointed  over  his  shoulder  in  em- 
barrassed silence.  He  was  not  used  to  veiled  laun- 
dresses —  and  young  ones  too.  Mrs.  O'Hooligan 
was  big  and  sixty,  and  usually  wore  a  red  woolen 
"  cloud  "  falling  off  her  back  comb.  Her  silent  sub- 
stitute went  to  the  closet  where  the  linen  lay  tossed 


236  THE  SACRIFICE  OF  ANTIGONE. 

about  iu  classic  and  masculine  disorder,  filled  the 
clothes  bag,  and  got  herself  out  of  the  room  as  soon 
as  possible.  She  was  hurrying  away  without  her 
money.  The  Professor  called  her  back  and  handed 
her  a  two  dollar  bill.  "  iSTever  mind  the  change/'  he 
said  gruffly. 

"I  prefer  to  return  it,  sir,"  answered  the  laun- 
dress, in  a  scarcely  audible  voice.  "  I  will  do  so 
next  week,     I  —  have  n't  it  with  me  to-night." 

What  was  it  about  that  voice  ?  No  tone  of  such 
refinement  had  ever  objected  to  keeping  change  iu 
those  aj^artments  before.  No  such  syntax  had  ever 
before  graced  the  subject  of  his  soiled  linen.  Was 
it  a  familiar  accent  ?     But  that  was  imj)ossible. 

It  was  half  -  past  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening, 
when  Mrs.  Goodwin  De  Witt  swept  through  her 
drawing-rooms  on  her  final  tour  of  rigorous  inspec- 
tion before  the  Junior  Party.  Mrs,  Goodwin  De 
Witt  was  one  of  the  most  distinguished  hostesses  of 
one  of  the  most  hospitable  cities  in  the  land. 

Celebrated  men  and  women  met  every  week  in 
her  beautiful  house.  All  the  literary,  artistic,  and 
theological  stars  of  the  University  Town  were  at 
home  in  her  salon.  She  was  a  woman  of  two  worlds, 
this  and  the  one  to  come.  Her  sympathies  Avere  as 
wide  as  her  true  culture.  She  was  President  of  the 
Students'  Aid  Association  and  of  who  knew  how 
many  charities  ?  but  she  never  had  prettier  flowers, 
or  a  more  attractive  dining-room,  or  invited  more 
celebrities  than  when  she  gave  her  annual  reception 
to  the  Junior  class  of  the  college  which  admitted 
women.     Nothing  was  too   good  for  these    young 


THE  SACRIFICE  OF  ANTIGONE.  237 

people  who  were  not  invited  to  elegant  homes  any 
too  often,  and  who  had  just  begun  the  long  struggle 
for  a  foothold  in  the  wonderful  world  which  she  had 
conquered,  and  which  had  crowned  her  one  of  its 
sweetest  queens. 

As  Mrs.  Goodwin  De  Witt  stood  deftly  shaking  a 
long  lace  portiere  into  graceful  shape,  her  attention 
was  arrested  by  the  sudden  sight  of  an  early  guest, 
a  student  clearly.  Who  else  would  come  sharp  on 
the  stroke  of  the  hour  ?  And  ah  !  who  else  would 
dress  —  if  the  truth  were  said  —  like  that  ?  A 
slight  figure,  frail  to  transparency,  bent  a  little  with 
embarrassment,  parted  the  lace  wdth  a  thin  hand. 

"I  see  I've  come  too  early,"  faltered  the  young 
guest,  with  a  frankness  which  attracted  the  woman 
of  society  at  the  first  sound.  "  I  don't  know  any  of 
the  girls  veri/  well.  I  am  pretty  busy.  I  had  my 
lessons  till  the  last  minute,  and  I  thought  perhaps 
you  'd  exxject  us  to  be  prompt ;  for  we  're  only  girls 
—  and  boys." 

She  advanced,  holding  out  her  hand,  smiling  the 
easy  smile  of  a  girl  who  was  not  quite  as  verdant  as 
her  early  arrival  might  seem  to  indicate.  She  stood 
in  the  splendid  room,  a  quaint  little  figure  in  an  old 
black  alpaca  dress,  with  linen  collar  and  cuffs, — 
these  were  beautifully  laundered;  an  old-fashioned 
brooch,  of  hair  and  gold,  fastened  her  collar ;  her 
hair  was  brushed  back  from  a  high  forehead. 

"  It  gives  me  the  more  chance  to  get  acquainted 
with  you,"  welcomed  the  hostess  heartily ;  "  and 
that  gives  me  pleasure.  Miss  —  ?  " 

"  Dreed.     Dorothy  Dreed  is  my  name." 

Mrs.    Goodwin   De  Witt  and  Dorothy  Dreed  sat 


238  THE  SACRIFICE  OF  ANTIGONE. 

down  on  a  blue  satin  tete-a-tete,  and  in  five  minutes 
were  fast  friends.  In  ten  the  older  woman  knew 
the  younger  one's  whole  story  —  or  thought  she  did. 
If  she  only  had,  our  tale  would  have  found  a  gayer 
ending.  Dorothy  was  so  gentle,  she  was  so  well- 
mannered,  she  was  so  affectionate,  she  was  so  frank 
—  how  could  the  experienced  hostess  know  that  the 
proud-hearted  little  creature  held  her  at  bay,  and 
told  her  all  she  chose,  and  not  a  word  beyond,  of  her 
struggling  history  ? 

A  Junior  in  college  ?  Yes.  Competing  for  the 
Greek  prize  ?  Trying  to  —  hoping  to.  It  was  like 
Professor  Kosmos  to  offer  so  large  a  sum  —  how 
large  ?  Mrs.  De  "Witt  forgot.  Two  hundred  dol- 
lars. A  very  large  sum,  Dorothy  Dreed  said.  And 
she  thought  it  quite  like  Professor  Kosmos  ;  he  was 
such  an  enthusiast  in  Greek.  Mrs.  De  Witt  hesi- 
tated. Was  her  guest  quite  well  ?  She  had  a  frail 
look.  Quite  well,  Dorothy  said.  Did  she  live  with 
friends  ?  No  ;  she  boarded.  Were  her  parents  liv- 
ing ?     Her  father  was  —  and  her  step-mother. 

There  were  boys ;  brothers.  The  boys  had  been 
put  through  college  somehow,  all  but  one,  her  little 
brother  Teddy.     Nobody  expected  a  ffirl  to  go. 

*'  So  I  came  away  on  my  own  account,  and  put  my- 
self through.  I  entered  Freshman  year,"  smiled 
Dorothy. 

"I  —  came  —  without  kid  gloves,"  added  the  poor 
child  pathetically,  looking  down  at  her  bare  hands  ; 
redder  and  rougher  than  most  of  the  girls'  hands 
were  ;  little  delicate  hands  put  through  some  rude 
work  foreign  to  their  inheritance  and  training.  She 
felt  that  Mrs.  De  Witt  would  understand  that  she 
could  not  afford  gloves. 


THE  SACRIFICE  OF  ANTIGONE.  239 

The  black  alpaca  nestled  confidingly  against  the 
lace  and  velvet  draperies  of  a  hostess  with  eyes  full 
of  tears  that  fell  —  or  one  did  —  upon  the  blue 
satin  cushions  where  the  two  sat  talking. 

"  Here  is  another  case,"  thought  Mrs.  De  Witt ; 
her  warm  heart  was  overburdened  with  "  cases  "  all 
the  time. 

"  Here  is  a  case  for  the  Aid  Society.  I  must  look 
her  up  as  soon  as  I  can." 

But  how  was  even  Mrs.  De  Witt,  woman  of  the 
world,  protector  of  poor  students,  searcher  of  girls' 
hearts,  to  know  that  this  "  case  "  was  the  most  des- 
perate in  the  whole  college  that  she  and  a  handful 
of  good  women  tried  to  ''mother"  with  limited 
funds  and  unlimited  sympathies  ?  How  was  she  to 
know  —  for  there  was  a  stir  and  a  flutter  at  the 
door,  and  gayly  a  troop  of  her  guests  poured  in  — 
young  ladies  and  young  fellows  —  chattering  and 
frolicsome  ;  all  in  their  best  clothes  and  best  man- 
ners ;  and  none  —  not  one  in  the  class  of  fifty-two  — 
shrinking  out  of  sight  in  black  alpaca  and  linen  col- 
lar and  poor,  bare  hands. 

The  poorest  girl  in  the  lot  had  managed  somehow. 
Only  Dorothy  was  too  poor  to  manage  at  all. 

How  was  Mrs.  De  Witt  to  know  that  her  luxuri- 
ous home  held  that  night  a  girl  put  to  the  hardest 
for  the  barest  necessities  of  life ;  a  girl  friendless, 
cold,  half-dressed,  all  but  starving  in  that  great, 
rich,  generous,  studious  city  —  a  girl  tenderly 
reared,  who  had  beaten  about  in  attic  lodgings  and 
hall  bedrooms  like  a  desolate  waif;  who  had  done 
every  kind  of  rough,  menial  work  she  could  put  her 
little  hands  to,  for  bread  and  rent  and   shoes   and 


240  THE  SACRIFICE  OF  ANTIGONE. 

fire  and  books  —  and  never  complained  of  it,  never 
even  "told"  of  it,  and  who  sat  there  now  on  those 
satin  cushions,  so  faint  with  hunger  that  the  odor  of 
the  hot  chocolate  from  the  dining-room  made  her 
ravenously  giddj-. 

In  the  course  of  that  happy  evening  —  for  it  was 
a  very  happy  evening  to  those  fifty  young  people 
and  to  the  kindly  lions  who  came  to  "  meet "  them 
—  the  thoughtful  hostess  found  a  chance  to  ask  the 
child,  point-blank  who  her  father  was. 

"An  Episcopal  clergyman,"  said  Dorothy.  "He 
lives  in  East  Omaha,  Nebraska.  Papa  has  n't  a 
large  parish,"  added  Dorothy ;  "  but  he 's  a  good 
man." 

"  You  must  come  and  see  me,"  said  Mrs.  De  Witt 
gently  ;  "  and  let  us  talk  more." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Dorothy  prettily ;  "  after  I 
have  tried  for  the  Greek  Prize !  I  shall  have  to 
work  hard  till  then." 

"  Ah !  there,"  murmured  the  hostess,  "  is  our 
friend  Professor  Kosmos  himself." 

But  when  she  turned  to  greet  him,  the  little  girl 
in  alpaca  was  gone.  Dorothy  had  disappeared. 
Mrs.  De  Witt  and  the  great  Professor  looked  for  her 
in  vain  for  fully  five  minutes.  Dorothy  had  van- 
ished. The  dismissed  waitress  at  Thurston's  could 
not  make  up  her  mind  to  meet  her  customer.  The 
inexperienced  washerwoman  could  not  face  in  those 
gorgeous  parlors  the  employer  whom  she  "  ironed 
and  mended"  every  week.  Poor  Dorothy  slipped 
away  home  —  without  even  her  chocolate  —  and 
cried  and  studied  and  shivered  half  the  night  in  her 
dingy  attic  lodging.  The  other  girls  stayed  and  had 
a  beautiful  time. 


THE  SACRIFICE  OF  ANTIGONE.  241 

But  Dorothy  was  working  for  the  Greek  Prize 
oration.  Only  one  other  girl-student  was  going  to 
compete  at  all.  The  rest  were  all  boys.  Dorothy 
comforted  herself  by  thinking  how  it  would  be  if 
she  got  that  prize.  Two  hundred  dollars  !  A  poor 
clergyman's  daughter  who  had  sewed,  and  copied 
for  lawyers,  and  washed  and  ironed,  and  tutored 
other  girls,  and  gone  out  mending  carpets,  and 
waited  at  Thurston's,  and  suffered,  and  shivered,  and 
starved  "  for  an  education  "  for  two  years  and  a  half, 
thought  of  that  sum  of  money  with  a  kind  of  dumb 
incredulous  ecstasy. 

"  First  of  all,"  whispered  Dorothy,  "  I'll  get  —  I'll 
get  a  nice  beefsteak.  And  then  I  think  —  I'll  have 
some  flannels." 

It  was  the  cold,  spring  term. 

"  And  then,"  said  Dorothy  to  herself,  "  I  '11  send 
something  home  to  Papa  —  and  Teddy.  I  would  n't 
be  selfish  with  two  hundred  dollars  !  " 

There  was  unusual  excitement  in  College  Hall  on 
a  wild  March  night. 

The  Audience-Room  was  packed  to  suffocation. 
Only  the  President  and  Professor  Kosmos,  with  the 
five  contestants,  occupied  the  platform.  Judge  and 
Mrs.  De  Witt  were  prominently  seated  in  front. 
At  the  last  it  was  rumored  that  but  one  young  lady 
would  compete;  the  other  had  backed  out  in  dis- 
may. 

Now  this  oratorical  contest  was  an  unusual  thing, 
the  first  of  its  kind  in  the  countr}-,  the  hobby  of  its 
originator,  the  famous  Professor.  Greek  declama- 
tion,  of  course,  was  an  old  story;  but   an  original 


242  THE  SACRIFICE  OF  ANTIGONE. 

Greek  oration,  cast  in  tlie  purest  of  classic  style  and 
delivered  in  full  Greek  costume  by  the  orator,  was  a 
novelty.  It  was  a  step  in  advance  of  the  popular 
rendering  of  Greek  plays  in  the  original. 

The  four  young  men  upon  the  platform  sat  re- 
splendent in  effective  tunics  of  differing  colors,  from 
whose  low  necks  their  more  or  less  pronounced  Yan- 
kee profiles  towered  solemnly.  The  solitary  young 
woman  sat  modestly  covered  from  neck  to  ankles 
with  a  dark  cloak. 

It  looked  like  an  old  waterproof  cloak ;  and  in- 
deed it  was.  The  stage  was  decorated  to  a  repre- 
sentation of  the  Acropolis,  which  it  is  to  be  hoped 
Demosthenes  would  have  recognized  if  he  had  been 
offered  a  platform  ticket. 

The  four  young  men,  each  in  his  turn,  began  to 
spout  like  four  young  North  Americans  in  very  cred- 
itable Greek  syntax,  and  very  natural  New  England 
accent.  The  brilliant  audience  listened  with  a 
mobile  expression  of  countenance  calculated  to  show 
how  familiar  one  was  with  the  dead  languages. 

The  subject  of  Phidias  was  treated  in  yellow 
surah ;  Plato  in  brown  nankeen ;  Alexander  in  pur- 
ple merino  and  gold  braid ;  while  Alcibiades,  the 
descendant  of  Ajax,  harangued  his  soldiers  in  full 
military  panoply.  These  young  gentlemen  were  all 
enthusiastically  applauded. 

A  hush  preceded  the  announcement,  in  full  Greek, 
of  the  last  contestant  of  the  occasion.  Miss  Dorothy 
Dreed.  She  would  address  the  audience  upon  the 
plaintive  and  beautiful  topic  of  Antigone. 

From  the  shoulders  of  a  little  figure,  trembling 
very  much,  the  old  waterproof  cloak  dropped  slowly. 


THE  SACRIFICE  OF  ANTIGONE.  243 

There  glided  to  the  front  of  the  pLatform  a  lovely 
creature,  slim  and  swaying,  all  in  white,  clinging 
white,  and  Greek  from  the  twist  of  her  dark  hair  to 
the  sandal  on  her  pretty  foot  and  the  pattern  on  her 
chiton^ s  edge. 

The  costume  was  cheese-cloth,  and  cost  five  cents 
a  yard  —  but  who  knew  ?  who  cared  ?  It  was  stu- 
dious, it  was  graceful,  it  was  becoming,  it  was  per- 
fect, it  was  Greek  —  it  was  Antigone. 

Professor  Kosmos  gave  a  start  which  shook  the 
programme  from  his  hand  when  the  Greek  goddess 
emerged  from  her  black  chrysalis  ;  and  when  she 
opened  her  trembling  lips  and  began  to  speak  with 
the  rhythmic  Greek  undulation  dear  to  the  heart 
and  head  of  the  classic  scholar,  and  delivered  an  ex- 
cellent philippic  against  Creon  and  a  piteous,  wo- 
manly wail  for  Polynices,  and  a  pathetic  appeal  to  the 
attentive  audience  for  Antigone's  own  doomed  young 
life,  he  covered  his  eyes  with  that  programme  and 
felt  shaken  to  his  soul.  In  this  Antigone,  buoyed  in 
terrible  struggles  by  love  of  art  that  no  privation 
could  quench,  bearing  woes  that  no  Sophocles  had 
sung,  he  recognized  the  face  of  his  waitress  and  the 
voice  of  his  washerwoman. 

She  took  the  prize  —  of  course  she  took  the  prize. 
It  was  a  foregone  conclusion  after  five  minutes. 

The  audience  had  the  refinement  and  intuition  to 
appreciate  the  quality  of  the  girl's  scholarly  work 
and  womanly  nature,  and  rose  to  their  feet  en  masse 
as  Antigone,  like  a  spirit,  melted  from  the  stage. 

Afterward  they  sought  her  —  they  sought  her 
everywhere.  But,  like  a  spirit,  she  had  gone  ;  she 
could  not  be  found. 


244  THE  SACRIFICE  OF  ANTIGONE. 

One  of  the  girls,  "who  knew  her  better  than  the 
rest  (though  that  was  little  enough),  said  that  she 
thought  Miss  Dreed  was  very  tired  and  had  gone 
home.  She  had  worked  too  hard,  the  girl  said ;  but 
she  kept  to  herself.  They  were  afraid  she  was  very 
poor,  but  nobody  knew  ;  she  never  told ;  she  studied 
too  hard  to  make  intimate  friends. 

"  But,  madam,  who  is  this  girl  ?  "  cried  Professor 
Kosmos,  in  much  agitation.  "  I  want  to  hand  her 
the  prize  myself.  She 's  magnificent !  But,  madam, 
do  you  know  she  's  starving  ?  " 

In  ten  words  he  told  Mrs.  De  Witt  all  he  knew. 

Her  stately  form  trembled  with  sympathy  and 
sickness  of  heart. 

"  I  was  going  to  see  her,"  wailed  that  good  woman. 
"  I  got  her  address  —  but  my  husband  has  been  sick. 
I  could  nH  go.  I  '11  go  to-morrow  —  to-night.  Call 
my  carriage.  Professor  !  Tell  Mr.  De  Witt.  I  won't 
wait;  i  canH  wait." 

"  You  'd  better,"  said  the  Judge  calmly,  coming 
up.  *'  You  are  tired  out,  my  dear.  Go  to-morrow  — 
and  the  Professor  will  go  with  you." 

"  That  I  will ! "  cried  the  uneasy  Professor.  ''  It  is 
distressing  ;  it  is  unheard  of.  Who  is  the  girl,  any- 
how ?     Does  anybody  know  ?  " 

*'  She  is  the  daughter  of  an  Episcopal  clergyman 
in  East  Omaha,"  sighed  Mrs.  De  Witt.  *'  She  told 
me  —  Eeverend  James  Dreed." 

"  Castor  and  Pollux  !  "  cried  Professor  Kosmos. 
"  Jim  Dreed !  He  was  my  classmate  at  Harvard, 
and  he  ranked  above  me.  Why,  I  thought  the  world 
of  the  fellow.     Jim  Breed's  davghter  !  " 


THE  SACRIFICE  OF  ANTIGONE.  245 

It  was  an  attic  indeed  ;  a  very  poor  attic  —  not  on 
the  list  of  accredited  boarding-places  in  the  hands  of 
the  College  Eegistrar.  The  poorest  student  in  the 
University  had  fared  better  than  this  brave  and 
dying,  proud  and  silent  girl. 

For  that  she  was  dying  when  they  found  her  no 
experienced  eye  could  doubt. 

She  had  crawled  home  —  no  one  ever  knew  how 
—  after  that  last  flaring  flash  of  strength,  in  whose 
strong  flame  her  fading  life  had  gone  out.  She  had 
managed  to  creep  into  her  cold  little  cot,  —  too  ex- 
hausted to  save  what  was  left  of  her  scanty  fire,  — 
and  there  her  landlady,  a  respectable,  but  indifferent 
matron,  had  found  her,  unconscious,  at  noon  next 
day. 

The  best  of  everything  was  done,  as  it  is  so  often, 
at  the  last  of  all  suffering  and  all  endurance.  Mrs. 
Goodwin  De  Witt's  own  celebrated  physician  came 
and  pronounced  with  his  own  distinguished  lips  the 
fatal  prognosis. 

"  No  hope.  The  constitution  has  succumbed  to 
want  and  work.  Make  her  comfortable.  That  is  all 
you  can  do.     It  is  only  a  question  of  days." 

In  a  syncope  rather  than  a  fever  the  girl's  life 
ebbed  quietly  away.  She  knew  them  at  times  and 
looked  at  them  gratefully.  Gentle  hands  bore  her 
on  a  litter  to  Mrs.  De  Witt's  own  elegant  mansion. 
In  the  luxurious  guest-chamber  of  that  most  Chris- 
tian home,  the  obscure  little  college  girl  lay  at  the 
last,  like  a  princess  —  nay,  more,  like  a  daughter  of 
the  house. 

The  tenderness  of  home,  so  long  unknown  by  her, 
cherished  her  to  the  end.     Motherly  mercy  brooded 


246  THE  SACRIFICE  OF  ANTIGONE. 

over  her,  and  she  gave  signs  that  she  knew  it,  and 
was  comforted  because  of  it.  The  college  sent  im- 
portant delegates  to  honor  her  who  had  honored  it ; 
but  she  seemed  to  have  passed  beyond  caring  for  the 
college. 

She  referred  to  it  only  once.  Then  she  said  —  and 
it  was  the  last  word  she  spoke  to  any  person  :  — 

"  Is  the  prize  money  mine  —  all  mine  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  dear." 

"  Two  —  hundred  —  dollars,  Professor  ?  " 

"  Poor  child  —  yes  —  ten  times  that,  if  you  could 
use  it." 

"  Send  some  of  it  to  Papa,"  said  Dorothy  distinctly. 
"  And  give  the  rest  to  Teddy  —  to  help  Teddy  go  to 
college.  Teddy  is  my  little  brother.  And  Papa  is 
very  poor." 


SWEET  HOME. 

I  HAVE  been  asked  to  record  certain  events  which 
came  under  my  observation  some  years  since,  and 
whicli  are  thouglit  to  have  a  kind  of  interest  not  al- 
ways adhering  to  the  fashionable  fiction  of  the  day. 
A  hurried  or  tired  man,  snatching  magazine  or  news- 
paper for  a  clutch  of  freedom  from  his  own  private 
bother,  stands  the  main  chance  of  metaphysics,  por- 
trait photography,  or  bric-a-brac.  As  I  take  it,  the 
main  chance  is  that  he  wants  a  stori/  ;  the  art  of  tell- 
ing which  bids  fair  to  be  a  submerged  one  in  the 
long  wave  of  our  transition  period.  The  tale  may 
even  be  a  sad  one  ;  but  if  something  happens,  your 
busy  or  weary  reader  feels  that  he  has  what  he  came 
for.  My  tale  is  not  a  glad  one  ;  but  if  it  offer  no 
mental  hyperaisthesia  or  moral  dissection  table  or 
conversational  pyrotechnics,  it  will  at  least  describe 
a  bit  of  real  life  in  a  plain  way,  and  stop  when  it  is 
done. 

I  am  by  profession  a  physician,  and  my  name  is 
Ferm.  I  am  at  present  practicing  in  New  York; 
which  is  neither  here  nor  there,  since  it  is  not  my 
own  story  that  I  have  to  relate.  I  am  the  only  liv- 
ing being  —  for  the  nurse  has  since  died  —  who  com- 
mands all  the  facts  of  what,  in  the  latter  years  of  a 
very  varied  professional  life,  I  can  say  is  on  the 
whole  the  most  tragic  experience  which  has  ever 
entered  into  it. 


248  SWEET  HOME. 

At  the  time  of  which  I  must  hasten  to  speak,  with- 
out further  waste  of  the  precious  tissue  of  words,  I 
was  in  practice  in  a  large  Western  city,  whose  name 
I  shall  withhold.  I  was  not  young ;  although  but 
recently  married.  My  youth  had  been  one  of  close 
absorption  in  my  profession  ;  and  I  had.  achieved  a 
certain  foothold  in  it,  before  turning  my  attention  to 
the  personal  aspect  of  life  which  we  call  human  hap- 
piness. In  fact,  I  had  but  just  returned  from  my 
bridal  trip  at  the  time  the  events  I  speak  of  took 
place.  I  said  a  moment  since  that,  as  I  was  not  re- 
lating my  own  story,  personal  incidents  were  out  of 
order  in  the  recital.  Already  am  I  compelled  to  re- 
tract this  rash  observation,  for  already  I  see  that  the 
personal  equation  gave,  or  may  have  given,  a  power- 
ful, subjective  coloring  to  the  effects  of  the  tragedy 
on  my  own  mind.  I  am  not  used  to  writing  stories. 
It  is  possible  that  it  may  not  be  so  simple  a  matter 
to  stick  to  "  what  happened  "  as  I  should  have  sup- 
posed. At  all  events,  I  must  tell  this  story  in  my 
own  way,  good  or  bad,  since  there  is  no  one  else  to 
tell  it ;  and  as  I  am  not  a  literary  man,  and  have  no 
professional  theory  to  rise  or  fall  by,  I  can  venture 
to  be  myself,  and  to  do  the  thing  naturally :  which 
may  be  something. 

To  be  frank,  then,  it  is  of  no  use  leaving  out  that 
incident  of  the  bridal  tour.  As  soon  as  I  try  to  re- 
vivify the  situation  in  which  young  M'cAll  found 
himself,  the  scene  which  invariably  and  imperiously 
presents  itself  is  one  which  has  nothing  to  do  ivith 
the  actors  or  action  of  his  history,  except  as  I  have 
to  do  with  it :  and  I,  as  I  say,  was  a  newly  married, 
happy  man,  through  whose  blinding  blaze  of  joy  the 


SWEET  HOME.  249 

dark  outline  of  that  other  man's  lot  looked  so  in- 
credible as  to  scarcely  come  under  optical  laws ;  or 
it  was  like  some  grim  object,  one  of  those  sea-mon- 
sters, let  us  say,  just  too  large  to  come  within  reach 
of  the  glass  through  which  they  must  be  viewed 
from  shore. 

Let  me  give  you,  then,  w^hat  I  see ;  and  what  I 
see,  at  the  name  of  Lloyd  M'cAU,  dashing  scintillant, 
swift,  and  unfading  before  me  —  what  I  see  is  this  :  — 

We  are  in  our  own  house,  on  our  owai  pleasant  and 
prosperous  street,  just  around  the  corner  from  the 
little  court  where  the  tragedy  to  which  I  refer  took 
place.  It  is  a  brilliant  morning  in  the  decline  of 
June.  We  have  been  two  days  "  at  home."  I  w^ho 
have  been  for  so  many  years  a  homeless  man,  fight- 
ing hand  to  hand  for  my  future,  hard-worked  and 
hard-working,  and  glad  of  it,  a  little  incredulous  yet 
of  my  good  luck,  stand  staring  about  me,  hat  in 
hand,  preparing  to  go  out  upon  my  morning  rounds, 
and  surprised  to  find  it  so  much  slower  a  process 
than  it  used  to  be.  It  takes  —  how  long !  —  to  say 
good-by  to  my  young  wife. 

W^e  have  said  it  already  more  times  than  a  man 
cares  to  stop  and  count,  and  still  it  seems  to  cling 
and  float  unsaid  in  the  very  atoms  of  the  sunny  air 
that  palpitate  between  us  as  we  move  apart  and  re- 
gard each  other  gravely  with  the  solemn  strangeness 
of  our  joy  upon  us.  The  house  is  fair  and  fresh  — 
dashed  watli  new  colors,  foreign  to  my  bachelor 
quarters,  and  wdiich  seem  to  me  like  tropical  foliage 
or  flora  gathered  from  some  till  now  undiscovered 
country,  and  set  ablaze  in  my  gray  life.  My  wife 
glides  backward  from  me  smiling ;  her  feet  cling  in 


250  SWEET  HOME. 

her  long  white  morning  gown ;  she  moves  to  the 
piano  and  seats  herself  there,  running  her  fingers 
lightly  up  and  down  the  shining  keys.  The  sun  is 
in  the  room — a  flood-tide  of  it,  throbbing  on  the  floor 
and  cool  couches,  the  books,  the  strewn  music,  and 
falling  on  the  hem  of  her  garment  at  her  feet. 

"  You  will  be  late,"  she  says. 

I  consult  my  watch,  and  vow  I  have  a  half  minute 
yet  to  spare.  I  have  a  consultation  on  hand  this 
morning,  and  I  am  a  precise  man,  accustomed  to 
some  military  method  in  my  duties,  and  giving  what 
I  require  from  my  patients,  —  obedience  to  law. 
But  I  have  never  been  a  just-married  man  before. 

"Hurlburt!" 

I  have  started,  but  she  calls  me  back.  Like  the 
most  helpless  of  my  sick,  I,  who  am  trained  to  rule, 
obey. 

'•'  Hurlburt,  dear  ?  " 

How  beautiful  —  how  beautiful  a  creature  a  happy 
woman  is  ! 

"  Hurlburt,  shall  we  have  the  "  — 

"  What,  my  love  ?  " 

"  Do  you  want  the  strawberries  for  lunch  or  din- 
ner, Hurlburt  ?  It  will  weigh  on  my  mind  all  the 
morning,  if  I  don't  know  beyond  a  moral  doubt !  " 

While  she  is  propounding  this  fateful  question  in 
her  pretty,  accented,  girlish  voice,  she  runs  her  fin- 
gers merrily  up  and  down  the  chromatic  scale  ;  she 
is  perched  upon  the  edge  of  the  piano  stool  with  her 
long  draperies  flowing  about  her ;  she  looks  at  me 
over  her  shoulder  with  a  sidewise  motion  of  her 
head,  like  a  half-tamed  bird's.  I  laugh,  and  lean, 
and  bid  good-by  again,  and  resolutely  turn  and  leave 
her,  once  again. 


SWEET  HOME.  251 

I  am  halfway  across  the  room,  when  once  more 
she  calls  me  in  a  dear  voice,  low  and  timid  ;  I  stand 
in  the  full  tide  of  the  sun  to  listen  to  her.  The  long 
muslin  curtain  blows  in  and  out  in  the  June  Avind. 
There  are  flowers  in  the  room,  and  a  sweet-scented 
creeper  of  some  sort  on  the  hot  brick  walls  without. 
The  outer  and  inner  perfumes  mingle  in  the  warm 
gust  that  breathes  and  brushes  past  me.  Life,  light, 
home,  hope,  love  —  what  a  world !  —  for  these  are  in 
it! 

"Happy,  Hurlburt?" 

At  this  instant  my  bell  rings  sharply.  I  give  my- 
self one  blessed  moment  to  answer  her  dear  ques- 
tion, and  hurry  to  the  hall.  As  I  do  so,  she  reseats 
herself  at  the  piano,  and  without  prelude  begins  to 
sing.  My  wife  is  a  pleasant  singer.  These  are  the 
words  she  sings  :  — 

"  Beyond  the  sea  of  death  love  lies. 
Forever,  yesterday,  to-day, 
Angels  shall  ask  them :    '  Is  it  well  ?  ' 
And  they  shall  answer:   'Yea.'  " 

My  boy  meets  me  in  the  hall.  His  name  is  Dubby 
Joe.  At  least,  I  believe,  strictly  it  is  Joe  Dubby, 
but  the  transposition  has  been  so  long  effected  by 
my  clientele  that  it  has  ceased  to  be  questioned  by 
anybody,  least  of  all  by  Joe  himself. 

"  It 's  Pirky  Trust,"  says  Dubby  Joe.  "  You  're 
wanted  right  away  over  to  Trust's.     Sister  's  sick." 

Pirky  Trust  stands  pallid  on  the  door-steps,  cap  in 
hand. 

Pirky  is  an  overgrown,  lounging  boy  of  an  in- 
definite age.  All  the  Trust  boys  are  overgrown,  and 
all  lounge  ;  there  are  five  of  them ;  they  look  like 


252  SWEET  HOME. 

obtuse  angles,  and  behave  as  they  look,  I  am  apt  to 
think,  AvJien  I  treat  their  sister,  —  the  only  woman 
in  a  big,  motherless,  masculine,  burly  family,  and 
"  put  upon  "  accordingly. 

"  What  is  the  matter  Avith  your  sister,  Pirky  ?  " 

"  Dunno,"  says  Pirky,  after  some  thought.  ^'  They 
're  all  scared  of  her.  She  's  dangerous.  They  told 
me  to  bring  you  lickity-split." 

"  Who  is  with  her  —  who  sent  you,  Pirky  ?  " 

"Dr.  M'cAll  sent  me.  He's  there.  And  pa's 
there.  And  Mrs,  Gumbrugen  's  there  —  and  Gura- 
brugen.  But  he  would  n't  come  for  you  himself,  Jim 
Gumbrugen  would  n't.  He  said  I  was  to  go.  He 
won't  go  out  of  her  sight,  I  guess  they  think  she's 
pretty  dangerous.  Dr.  M'cAll  told  me  to  run 's  I 
never  run  in  all  my  born  days  —  I'm  beat  out," 
panted  Pirky  plaintively. 

It  is  a  waste  of  moral  force  to  reason  with  the 
essential  selfishness  of  Pirky,  I  have  long  since 
learned  that.  He  loves  his  sister,  too  ;  they  all  do 
as  much  as  that.  Acutely  as  I  should  enjoy  picking 
Pirky  up  by  the  back  of  the  neck,  as  one  does  a 
puppy,  and  flinging  him  halfway  home,  I  am  so  con- 
scious what  a  breach  of  politico-spiritual  economy 
that  would  be  that  I  content  myself  with  saying 
mildly  :  — 

"  Jump  into  the  carriage,  Pirky,  and  I  '11  take  you 
round;"  and  Pirky  jumps  —  no,  I  should  say  that 
Pirk}^,  panting,  pathetic,  with  the  lofty  moral  ex- 
pression of  a  martyr,  lunges  in. 

I  shut  the  front  door  and  pass  out  into  the  hot, 
bright  morning.  The  lines  in  the  red  brick  walk 
show  hard  and  strange  to  me,  and  I  am  conscious  of 


SWEET  HOME.  253 

counting  them  as  I  go  out  over  our  little  front  yard 
and  down  the  steps  to  the  sidewalk.  All  my  nature, 
made  idle  and  unsympathetic  by  happiness,  braces 
itself  to  its  task,  —  the  healer's  ceaseless,  remorseless, 
blessed  task  of  holding  to  his  heart,  though  it  stab 
him  to  his  hurt  —  nay,  though  it  stab  him  to  his 
death,  suffering  not  his  own. 

I  linger  to  send  Dubby  Joe  up-town  to  defer  the 
consultation ;  for  I  see  —  no,  I  do  7iot  see  what  is 
before  me.  As  Pirky  and  I  turn  the  buggy  round,  I 
look  back  at  the  open  window,  through  which  I  hear 
my  young  wife  singing  still :  — 

"  Beyond  the  sea  of  death  love  lies  "  — 

Here,  properly  speaking,  my  story  should  begin. 
Let  me  tell  you,  then,  in  as  few  words  as  may  be, 
who  and  what  they  were  of  whom  I  write. 

Lloyd  M'cAll  was  the  young  doctor  to  whom  I 
gave  my  overflow  work.  I  meant  to  take  him  into 
partnership  some  day.  He  was  the  son  of  a  personal 
friend.  I  had  always  known  him  ;  had  been  his  pre- 
ceptor ;  given  him  his  first  patient ;  hurrahed  over 
his  first  cure ;  helped  him  over  his  first  failure ; 
loved  him  and  trusted  him,  and  "made  of  him,"  as 
the  women  say.  He  was  a  sensitive,  lovable  fellow, 
and  deserved  all  that  he  ever  had  from  me,  and 
more. 

Home  Trust  was  our  patient ;  for  some  time  past 
M'cAll  had  treated  her.  She  was  a  sick  woman, 
worn  out  in  the  service  of  an  exacting,  thoughtless 
family  of  six  men,  who  demanded  and  found  mother, 
daughter,  sister,  nurse,  seamstress,  laundress,  cook, 
in  the  body  and  soul  of  one  delicate  girl. 

He  was  a  grentlemau. 


254  SWEET  HOME. 

She  was  the  daughter  of  a  very  respectable  baker. 

He  was  her  physician. 

She  was  his  patient. 

He  was  well-born,  well-bred,  well-read,  and  not 
without  talent. 

Her  simple  education  at  the  common  schools  came 
to  an  end  on  the  day  of  her  mother's  funeral,  when, 
at  the  age  of  fourteen,  she  came  home  to  "  do  for  " 
the  bereaved  baker  and  the  five  long,  loungy,  little 
Trust  boys. 

He  was  unAvedded  and  unbound. 

She  was  engaged  to  be  married. 

He  was  a  man  of  high  aspirations  and  delicate 
honor. 

She  was  a  charming  creature. 

Let  me  recall  what  I  can  of  the  girl's  personnelle. 
Perhaps  I  did  not  at  the  time  occupy  myself  to  call 
her  beautiful,  but  I  was  a  busy  man.  My  patients 
moved  beneath  my  orders  like  pawns  upon  a  chess- 
board, and  so  that  they  moved  obediently  I  had  lit- 
tle time  to  think  further  about  them.  To  my  own 
mind,  the  relation  between  patient  and  physician  is 
one  so  peculiar  to  itself,  so  essentially  out  of  the 
natural  environment  in  which  human  beings  meet, 
and  ought  to  meet,  that  the  introduction  of  any- 
thing like  personal  sentiment  into  it  is  unpleasant 
to  me.  I  do*  not  like  even  to  treat  my  own  wife. 
She  was  never  my  patient.  I  find  it  difficult  to  esti- 
mate, perhajDS,  the  full  emotional  chances  of  the  rela- 
tion. 

It  is  true,  perhaps,  that  there  was  something 
about  Miss  Trust  which  one  had  to  think  about ;  for 
I  find  that  some  little  personal  details  occur  to  me 


SWEET  HOME.  255 

quite  easily.  I  am  sure  she  had  a  pleasant  figure, 
and  that  she  was  graceful  in  her  motions.  There 
was  something  quiet  and  pleasing  about  her  dress, 
which  never  flaunted  or  flared  into  the  incoherent 
fashions  favored  by  women,  especially  by  young 
women  of  her  social  opportunities ;  there  was  a  gen- 
tle a,nd  nunlike  effect  to  the  colors  she  wore,  or  else 
to  her  way  of  wearing  them  —  not  that  the  girl  was 
a  bit  of  a  nun  —  rather  a  real  piece  of  human  na- 
ture, sweet  and  fresh.  She  had  those  large  gray 
eyes  of  the  iridescent  type,  Avliich  deepen  to  dark 
brown  when  one  is  much  moved.  She  had  a  refined 
voice,  and  the  merriest  laugh  that  ever  caught  itself 
in  a  sick-room.  People  are  feared  or  respected  for 
this  or  that ;  they  are  beloved  for  their  laugh  or 
smile.  Home  Trust  was  too  young  to  smile.  We 
had  them  —  widows,  and  women  with  their  lives  be- 
hind them ;  plenty  of  them  in  our  clientele ;  who 
smiled  on  their  doctors  like  Sisters  of  Charity,  or 
even  (at  respectful  intervals)  like  angels.  This  sick 
girl  still  laughed.     It  was  delightful. 

Her  name  was  Homer  —  E.  Homer,  I  think, 
Ellen,  Eliza,  Emma  or  whatever  —  but  the  name 
which  the  poor  child's  mother  had  attached  to  her 
in  this  beautiful  contraction  clung  to  her  like  her 
own  bright  hair.  Now  that  I  think  of  it,  she  was  a 
blonde. 

This  loving  and  lovable  name  had  been  improved 
upon  in  a  pretty  way. 

I  really  cannot  say  what  started  it  —  whether  it 
was  the  sweet  fame  of  her  service  for  that  great 
hulking  family,  who  would  no  more  have  thought  of 
such  a  thing  themselves  than  would  last  year's  buns ; 


256  SWEET  HOME. 

or  whether  it  was  her  rare  way  of  "  getting  along " 
with  her  neighbors,  not  one  of  whom  but  was  in 
debt  to  her  for  some  of  the  endless  kindnesses  which 
now  and  then  make  neighborhood  an  ideal  matter ; 
or  whether  it  grew  out  of  her  attention  to  neglected 
children,  to  whom  at  her  busiest  and  her  weariest 
she  had  a  passion  for  offering  all  sorts  of  little  hos- 
pitalities and  brooding,  motherly  care  ;  or  whether 
the  name,  as  I  have  heard  it  suggested,  originated 
with  a  poor,  wretched  girl,  who  sought  refuge  at 
the  baker's  door  one  winter  night  in  a  deadly  storm, 
and  was  found  to  be  in  a  dying  condition. 

Home  Trust  gave  her  own  decent  room  to  this  pit- 
eous creature,  and  nursed  her  there  until  she  died. 
The  nearest  hospital  of  any  class  which  would  ad- 
mit the  patient  was  in  a  neighboring  city.  Suffer- 
ing and  risk  were  involved  in  the  traasfer  of  a  per- 
son at  so  low  a  stage  of  vitality. 

"  It  can't  be  thought  of,"  said  Miss  Trust  quietly, 
and  so  kept  the  stranger,  making  no  fuss  about  it, 
and  offered  the  sacred  hospitalities  of  a  good  woman's 
soul  to  this  poor  wretch  while  she  had  need  of  them. 
The  outcast  died,  praying  in  her  arms,  —  praying,  I 
have  been  told,  most  pathetically  and  passionately, 
in  a  way  to  break  one's  heart.  This  woman,  it  has 
been  sometimes  said,  first  called  the  young  girl  — 
for  she  was  then  a  very  young  girl  —  Sweet  Home. 

Nobody  was  laggard  to  catch  the  charming  nick- 
name ;  and  Sweet  Home  she  was,  and  shall  be  still 
to  all  who  knew  her  and  knew  her  bright  and  sweet 
unselfishness  in  every  attitude  she  took  toward  life. 
She  never  had  an  easy  life,  poor  child.  Let  these 
things  not  be  forgotten  of  her  now. 


SWEET  HOME.  257 

Her  father  loved  her,  and  overworked  her.  The 
five  lurabering  boys  loved  her  and  imposed  upon 
her.  It  was  their  nature  to.  The  mother  had  al- 
ways suffered  herself  to  be  imposed  upon.  She  took 
feminine  existence  at  the  masculine  estimate,  and 
thus,  by  the  simplest  laws  of  hereditary  transmis- 
sion, the  sons  imposed,  the  daughter  endured,  and 
so  it  went.  Sweet  Home,  a  vigorous,  cheerful,  ardent 
girl,  with  that  laugh  of  hers,  and  a  dimple,  full  of 
good  humor  and  good  blood  and  good  vitality  —  at 
20,  ailed  and  paled  and  laughed  at  it,  and  would  not 
talk  about  it,  and  went  on  ailing  and  paling  and 
laughing  and  working,  using  up  the  vital  centres, 
and  at  last  iDroke  down  roundly  with  what  it  is  now 
fashionable  to  diagnose  as  nervous  exhaustion. 
This  in  a  family  —  and  a  family  of  men  —  where 
nobody  but  herself  possessed  a  nerve  that  could  be 
brought  under  the  microscope  was  serious  business. 
I  remember  once  trying  to  explain  to  the  baker  why 
his  daughter  could  no  longer  officiate  at  the  family 
wash-tub,  by  suggesting  that  he  make  rolls  to-mor- 
row without  baking-powder. 

"  Ye  mean  she  's  lost  her  yeast  ?  "  asked  the  fa- 
ther, after  some  conscientious  reflection. 

M'cAll  and  I  had  tried  to  do  the  best  we  could 
for  her.  I  think  I  may  say  as  much  as  that.  Under 
consultation,  I  had  left  the  case  for  six  months 
largely  to  my  junior.  I  saw  the  girl  whenever  ne- 
cessary ;  but  I  was  driven,  and  she  seemed  contented 
enough  with  him.  They  got  on  very  well  together, 
and  I  kept,  or  thought  I  kept,  her  confidence.  Per- 
haps I  flattered  myself  just  there,  with  the  subtle 
self-delusion  which  a  doctor  is  apt  to  cherish  about 


258  SWEET  HOME. 

his  established  patients.     "We  are  men  of  ^veaknesses 
peculiar  to  our  profession. 

Miss  Trust  was  expected  to  marry  a  person  by  the 
name  of  James  Gumbrugen.  He  drove  an  express 
cart.  His  mother  was  a  professional  nurse.  I  had 
often  employed  her ;  they  were  very  respectable 
people.  The  engagement  had.lasted  some  years.  I 
believe  she  said  she  was  waiting  for  Pirky  to  grow 
up.  Pirky  was  the  youngest,  the  longest,  the  lank- 
est,  the  noisiest,  the  stupidest,  the  most  spoiled,  and 
the  least  considerate  of  the  tribe ;  but  sometimes 
when  I  observed  Gumbrugen,  I  was  not  in  a  hurry 
for  Pirky  to  grow  up.  There  was  nothing  the  mat- 
ter with  the  fellow  that  I  know  of,  except  that  he 
was  bald  and  had  a  double  chin.  He  was  a  highly 
respectable  young  man.  He  was  pertinaciously 
lo)'al  to  Sweet  Home,  and  perfectly  willing  to  wait 
for  Pirky  to  grow  up.  I  suppose  a  man  may  be 
very  much  in  love  even  if  he  has  a  double  chin. 
The  girl  had  never  expressed  any  dissatisfaction 
with  her  lover  —  and  as  I  repeat,  he  was  a  most  es- 
timable young  person.  At  the  time  of  which  I  speak 
Miss  Trust  had  improved  a  little.  M'cAll  and  I  be- 
gan to  have  hopes  that  she  might  not  become  a 
chronic  invalid,  a  prospect  of  which  we  had  never 
given  any  intimation  to  the  patient,  as  I  was  after- 
ward glad  to  remember.  She  expected  —  I  may 
say,  she  exacted  —  recovery  with  the  radiant  hope- 
fulness of  her  resolute  nature,  and  bore  her  suffer- 
ings as  sweetly  and  trustfully  as  she  bore  with 
Pirky,  waiting  for  health,  as  she  waited  for  the 
other  tyrant  to  "  grow  up."  She  was  a  very  lovable 
patient. 


SWEET  HOME.  259 

Lloyd  M'cAU  was  that  most  wretched  of  beings, 
a  morbidly  sensitive  or  sensitively  morbid  man.  In 
the  medical  school,  where  he  was  an  excellent, 
though  not  a  brilliant  scholar,  he  took  life  hard. 
He  fainted  in  the  dissecting-room  four  times ;  but 
pluckily  got  up  and  at  it  again,  till  he  conquered 
himself,  and  produced  admirable,  painstaking  demon- 
strations. He  used  to  tell  with  feeling  the  story  of 
Berlioz,  who  would  have  studied  medicine,  but,  at 
his  first  glance  at  the  "  material,"  turned  and  fled, 
dashing  through  the  open  window  and  home,  to  roll 
on  the  floor  in  agony  for  days  ;  hence  the  world  lost 
a  poor  doctor  and  gained  a  great  musician. 

Throughout  his  course  of  study,  young  M'cAU 
worried.  If  he  failed  in  a  recitation,  forthwith  he 
was  prepared  to  fail  of  his  diploma.  If  he  did  a 
good  thing,  he  was  oppressed  by  his  sense  of  its 
mediocrity.  If  a  professor  praised  him,  he  care- 
fully weighed  the  relative  importance  of  the  profes- 
sor. 

The  drudgery  of  mastering  anatomy  —  oiae  of  the 
hardest  of  recitation-room  studies  to  be  found  in  the 
educated  world  —  disheartened  him  out  of  all  pro- 
portion. He  crammed  for  his  examinations  at  night 
on  strong  coffee,  went  to  them  trembling  in  every 
nerve,  and  was  ill  for  days  thereafter.  He  was  a 
faithful  student,  but  he  never  knew  a  student's  com- 
fort. He  saw  life  steadily,  as  well  as  whole,  through 
magnifying  glasses  of  conscientious  discouragement. 
I  never  thought  him  quite  well.  His  father  had 
died  of  excessive  smoking,  and  there  was  a  very  ner- 
vous diathesis. 

With  all  this  he  was  a  refined  and  attractive  fel- 


260  SWEET  HOME. 

low,  with  decided  power  of  his  own  kind,  and  a  pros- 
pect of  round  success  if  he  had  a  fair  amount  of 
human  happiness.  He  was  one  of  those  i)eople  on 
whom  suffering  acts  like  vitriol,  and  whom  a  given 
amount  of  it  eats  out.  He  was  a  conscientious,  stu- 
dious physician  and  gaining  a  good  practice.  I 
trusted  him  with  my  own  work  to  any  extent. 

With  a  man  of  this  sort  nothing  is  so  sure  as  that 
a  woman  will  make  or  mar  him  ;  and  a  cheerful 
woman  is  a  foreordained  influence  of  a  powerful 
kind. 

"  I  sometimes  think,"  he  said  once,  when  he  was 
dining  with  me,  "  that  the  best  kind  of  a  wife  a  man 
could  have  would  be  a  woman  of  a  sunny  disposi- 
tion who  was  a  little  shallow." 

The  next  day  he  came  and  told  me  he  hoped  I 
would  n't  mistake  his  meaning,  and  wished  me  to 
understand  that  his  ideal  of  Woman  was  a  remark- 
ably high  one. 

He  was  not  in  love,  and  his  freedom  from  all 
emotional  entanglement  gave  him  special  value,  to 
my  mind,  in  the  business  I  turned  over  to  him.  He 
worked  as  impersonally  as  a  numeral  on  a  slate,  and 
where  his  duty  was  his  heart  was. 

To  Lloyd  M'cAll,  and  not  to  me  (and  tliis  was  as 
it  should  be,  or  if  it  Avere  not  I  had  only  myself  to 
thank  for  it),  to  the  devoted  young  assistant,  and 
not  to  the  busy  family  doctor,  the  summons  had 
gone  which  brought  sudden  help  to  urgent  need  at 
the  bedside  of  Sweet  Home.  He  was  there  before 
]ne ;  had  been  sent  for,  Pirky  said,  in  the  night,  be- 
sides ;  and  yesterday  afternoon  —  he  made  a  long 
call  yesterday ;  and  again,  Pirky  thought,  the  day 
before. 


SWEET  HOME.  261 

How  it  had  all  been,  who  knew  ?  Who  knows  ? 
They  had  been  necessarily  often  together  —  she  in 
her  charm  and  helplessness,  he  in  his  sensitive 
youth.  On  the  iron  discreetness  due  to  their  sacred 
relation  I  would  have  staked  my  honor  that  he  had 
never  encroached  by  the  breadth  of  a  graver's  point. 
He  was  a  physician,  and  a  gentleman.  She  was  his 
patient.  He  was  a  man  of  unblemished  integrity. 
And  to  distrust  her-  would  have  been  like  distrusting 
the  mountain  snow.  No  one  did  distrust.  At  the 
worst  and  most,  and  when  we  knew  all  that  was  ever 
known,  the  breath  of  a  doubt  was  never  cast  upon 
those  two.  Their  spotless  memory  became,  in  a  sol- 
emn and  awful  sense,  the  guarded  treasure  of  their 
friends. 

Would  he  have  wedded  her?  Would  she  have 
broken  her  troth  for  him  ?  Did  they  love  ?  Si- 
lently ?  Confessedly?  Calmly?  Madly?  Did 
they  face  their  position,  or  evade  its  facts  ?  Curse 
their  fate,  or  vow  to  conquer  it  ?  Did  he  plead,  and 
she  recede  ?  Did  he  hope,  and  she  despair  ?  Did 
she  wear  that  beautiful,  gossamer  mask  of  deceit 
which  women  wear  for  their  own  strange  nature's 
sake,  when  love,  the  nature  within  the  nature,  bids 
them  reveal  love's  dazzling  face  ?  Or  did  she  wear 
that  deeper,  sadder,  more  impenetrable  disguise  to 
which  a  woman  betakes  her  when  she  would  protect 
from  himself  the  man  she  loves  ?  Did  she  thus  ? 
Did  he  so?  Was  it  this?  Was  it  that?  God 
knows  —  and  they.     Let  him  who  knoweth  answer. 

Pirky  hurried  on  before  me  into  the  tidy  home 
where  he  had  been  served  like  a  sultan  and  behaved 
like  an  imp  for  eleven  years,  and  noisily  kicked  open 
the  door  with  his  cowhide  boots. 


262  SWEET  HOME. 

"  Be  quiet,  Pirky  !  How  many  times  have  Dr. 
M'cAll  and  I  told  you  that  noise  hurts  your  sister, 
and  that  you  "  — 

I  paused.  One  look  told  me  that  she  Avould  suffer 
no  more  from  Pirky's  boots.  Pirky  might  "  grow 
up,"  now,  as  fast  or  as  slow  as  he  pleased,  or  not  at 
all,  as  he  pleased.  His  day  for  torturing  those  deli- 
cately poised  nerves  and  that  more  delicate  heart 
was  over. 

Her  father  was  in  the  room,  and  Mrs.  Gumbrugen. 
Gumbrugen  himself  was  there,  and  one  of  the  older 
Trust  boys,  and  M'cAll. 

On  the  bed,  in  the  corner  of  the  neat,  modest, 
maidenly  room.  Sweet  Home  lay,  with  all  her  yellow 
hair  about  her,  in  her  white  night-clothes,  lightly 
covered  with  a  thin  blanket  —  even  then  a  lovely 
creature. 

She  was  still  breathing ;  the  faint,  paralytic 
breathing  which,  with  certain  other  symptoms  not 
necessary  to  dwell  upon,  told  me  on  the  instant  at 
least  a  part  of  the  terrible  story. 

As  I  entered  the  room  Lloyd  M'cAll  stirred,  but 
did  not  speak.  He  was  standing  with  his  back  to 
the  patient.  He  was  not  a  tall  man,  and  he  ap- 
peared to  have  shrunken  in  height,  and  to  crouch  as 
a  person  does  before  a  blast.  His  pallor  was  height- 
ened, perhaps,  by  his  dead-black  hair  and  beard  and 
black  eyes  ;  but  he  seemed  to  me  the  palest  breath- 
ing man  I  had  ever  seen  in  my  life.  It  was  Gum- 
brugen who  made  way  for  me  beside  the  bed. 

"  You  —  you  '11  save  her,"  he  said  confidently. 
"  You  've  had  more  experience.  You  're  an  older 
man.     I   said  you'd  save  her."     But  a  quiver  not 


SWEET  HOME.  263 

confident  caught  the  double  chin,  and  his  bald  head 
sank  into  his  hands. 

"  Dying,  doctor  ?  "  whispered  Mrs.  Gumbrugen. 

"  She  is  a  dead  woman !  " 

I  spoke  passionately.  It  seemed  incredible  that  I 
had  not  been  called  before.  It  was  no  time  —  there 
might  never  be  a  time  —  to  tell  these  people  the 
truth ;  to  say  that  Sweet  Home  was  dying  from  an 
overdose  of  —  something  —  beyond  all  human  doubt ; 
chloral  I  should  have  said. 

"  What  ails  my  girl  ?  "  The  big  baker  straight- 
ened himself  with  a  dazed,  dull  look.  "  She  used  to 
be  a  healthy  girl.  I  never  thought  she  "d  be  likely 
to  die.^^ 

Even  as  he  spoke,  and  I  bent  over  the  poor  girl,  to 
hold  her  gentle  hands  —  constrained  by  an  anguish 
half  anger,  that  she  should  die  without  her  old  doc- 
tor to  help  her  —  even  as  her  father  spoke,  Sweet 
Home  passed  beyond  that  phase  of  life  which  we 
call  death,  and  that  stage  of  resolve  which  is  within 
the  power  of  recall. 

As  I  put  my  hand  upon  her  eyes  I  heard  a  little 
click  or  thud  upon  the  floor.  It  was  Pirky  pulling 
off  his  boots  and  tramping  in  his  stocking-feet  to  see 
how  quiet  he  could  be ;  like  many  wiser  and  better 
than  Pirky,  rendering  unto  remorse  the  things  that 
were  love's,  and  unto  death  the  things  that  were 
life's. 

At  this  moment  a  voice,  which  I  can  describe  by 
no  other  word  than  haggard,  said  slowly  behind 
me  : 

"  Doctor  Ferm,  is  she  dead  ?  " 


264  SWEET  HOME. 

"Yes,  M'cAll." 

"  Quite  dead  ?     I  don't  want  to  look  at  her." 

"  Quite  dead." 

"  You  '11  do  everything,  will  you  ?  I  —  must  go 
home  a  minute.     I  sha'n't  be  gone  long." 

"  I  shall  wish  to  see  you  as  soon  as  possible, 
M'cAll." 

"  Very  well,  sir.     Good-by,  sir." 

"  Good-by,  M'cAll." 

I  said  this  mechanically,  not  turning  to  look  at 
my  assistant.  I  was  more  shocked  than  by  any- 
thing that  had  occurred  in  my  professional  life  be- 
fore, and  had  not  found  my  thoughts  or  their  ex- 
pression ;  both  seemed  a  tremendous  duty,  difficult 
and  delicate  past  belief. 

I  gazed  into  the  dead  girl's  face  long  and  search- 
ingly.  Did  I  summon  the  corpse  to  speak  ?  Did  I 
bid  the  soul  to  answer  ?  I  am  a  busy,  practical 
man,  not  given  to  fancies.  What  could  the  evasive, 
illusive,  vanished  spirit  do  with  my  unpracticed 
imagination  ?  How  should  it  find  a  vocabulary  for 
one  who  had  never  opened  the  grammar  of  its  lan- 
guage ?  Like  most  men  of  my  vocation,  what  is 
called  spiritual  truth  was  the  last  thing  that  I  had 
made  time  —  or  perhaps  taste  —  to  think  about. 
Yet,  at  that  moment,  I  found  it  not  possible  to  be- 
lieve that  a  dose  of  chloral  had  stopped  the  delicate 
"  complex "  of  beauty  and  sweetness  and  unselfish- 
ness, of  hope  and  vitality,  and  half-developed  joy- 
giving  and  joy-receiving  power  which  we  called 
Sweet  Home. 

"  Poor  child ! "  I  said.     "  Poor  child  !  " 

A  little  ashamed  of  the  consulting  physician  for 


SWEET  HOME.  265 

exhibiting  an  emotion  in  the  presence  of  those 
whose  emotion  he  was  expected  to  restrain,  I  turned 
to  recover  myself,  and  found  that  Mrs.  Gumbrugen 
and  I  were  alone.  Father,  brothers,  and  lover  had 
instinctively  got  themselves  away,  and  left  us  with 
our  patient. 

Mrs.  Gumbrugen  was  an  accomplished  nurse  ;  she 
was  accustomed  to  possess  herself.  I  do  not  know 
that  I  had  ever  seen  her  weep  before,  and  when  she 
lifted  her  sturdy  face  to  me,  streaming  with  tears,  I 
experienced  a  feeling  almost  of  embarrassment. 

A  general  could  hardly  be  more  the  victim  of  the 
unexpected  who  found  his  aid  in  hysterics  on  the 
eve  of  battle. 

"  I  was  fond  of  her,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Gumbrugen ; 
"  we  all  were.     And  Jamie  "  — 

Truly,  I  suppose  there  is  no  reason  in  law  or  gos- 
pel why  an  expressman  with  a  double  chin  should 
not  be  known  as  "  Jamie  ; "  but  it  took  time  for  me 
to  reconcile  these  facts  to  my  imagination  ;  or  to 
stammer  forth  the  phrase  or  two  of  comfort  due,  as 
I  must  perceive,  to  the  mother  of  Sweet  Home's  be- 
reaved lover.  This  interval,  however,  was  enough 
for  the  trained  nature  of  one  of  my  best  nurses  to 
regain  itself ;  and  when  Mrs.  Gumbrugen  spoke 
again  it  was  quite  with  her  usual  professional  quali- 
ties of  calm,  clearness,  and  conciseness. 

She  gave  me  the  facts,  such  as  I  asked  for  —  no 
more,  no  less  —  in  her  customary  method  and  man- 
ner. She  turned  her  personal  emotion  out-of-doors 
and  put  herself  on  duty.  My  command  was  her  re- 
sponse, and  thus  I  had  the  circumstances  ;  all  there 
were  —  or  all  there  seemed. 


266  SWEET  HOME. 

At  half  -  past  two  o'clock  in  the  mcrning  Home 
Trust  had  called  for  help.  She  complained  of  great, 
indefinite  distress,  and  seemed  more  agitated  by  it 
than  she  was  ever  known  to  be  by  the  fluctuations 
of  her  illness.  The  boy  Pirky  slept  in  the  next 
room,  and  she  had  tried  to  wake  him,  but  ineffec- 
tually ;  whether  he  did  n't  hear,  or  would  n't  hear, 
probably  Pirky  alone  would  ever  fully  know.  Her 
groans  had  aroused  her  father,  after  no  one  knew 
how  long  a  period  of  solitary  suffering.  Frightened 
and  helpless,  he  had  fled  to  the  neighbors  for  aid. 
B}^  good  fortune  Mrs.  Gumbrugen  was  at  home,  and 
had  reached  the  sick-room  in  less  time  than  it  would 
have  taken  a  less  experienced  woman  to  get  on  her 
stockings. 

Sweet  Home  was  then  quite  conscious,  knew  her, 
thanked  her,  kissed  her,  and  said  she  was  glad  to 
have  a  woman  there.  She  asked  that  Dr.  M'cAll  be 
sent  for,  and  the  baker  roused  one  of  the  older  boys, 
and  brought  him  with  such  speed  as  might  be. 
Mrs.  Gumbrugen  had,  indeed,  suggested  that  1  be 
summoned,  but  the  patient  objected.  She  seemed 
by  that  time  dazed  and  stupid,  and  the  nurse  thought 
her  half  asleep ;  but  she  intimated  a  decided  prefer- 
ence for  Dr.  M'cAll ;  seeming  to  try  to  say  some- 
thing to  the  effect  that  he  had  been  managing  the 
case,  or  that  he  was  to  be  trusted,  but  failing  to  say 
it  exactly ;  only  making  it  clear  that  she  desired 
and  expected  his  presence. 

"  He  is  a  good  doctor,"  she  murmured  once. 
"  Everybody  calls  him  so.  He  has  done  me  a  great 
deal  of  good.     He  has  helped  me  very  much." 

Once,  besides,  she  spoke  quite  distinctly,  rousing 
with  some  effort  to  say :  — 


SWEET  HOME.  267 

"Tell  Jamie  " — but  Avliat  she  would  have  told 
Jamie,  Jamie  will  never  know.  The  sentence  broke, 
like  a  sentence  in  a  dream,  and  after  this  she  spoke 
but  once  again,  quite  coherently,  to  say  that  it  was 
growing  cold,  and  she  was  afraid  Pirky  was  uncov- 
ered ;  would  Mrs.  Gumbrugen  go  in  and  look  after 
Pirky  ? 

Dr.  M'cAll  came.  He  made  no  delay  in  replying 
to  the  summons,  but  the  patient  was  either  far 
in  sleep  or  stupor  before  he  came.  She  answered 
his  questions,  Mrs.  Gumbrugen  thought,  by  signs  or 
murmurs  ;  she  was  sure  that  no  conversation  passed 
between  them.  It  was  certain,  however,  that  Sweet 
Home  knew  him.  When  he  was  leaving  her  she 
put  out  her  hand  and  laid  it  appealingly  upon  his 
arm  for  a  moment;  then  dropped  it  heavily  upon 
the  bed  and  turned  her  face  away.  Mrs.  Gumbru- 
gen suffered  herself  to  say  that  it  occurred  to  her 
that  the  patient  did  not  want  to  talk. 

"  It  crossed  my  mind,  sir,  she  wanted  the  doctor 
to  stay  ;  but  she  would  n't  say  —  or  she  could  n't 
say  —  not  so  much  as  that.     However,  he  did  n't." 

Mrs.  Gumbrugen  thought  that  Dr.  M'cAll  had  not 
considered  the  patient  dangerously  ill.  He  had 
stayed  with  her  an  hour,  prescribed  for  her,  ob- 
served the  working  of  his  prescriptions,  desired  the 
nurse  to  remain  in  the  room  the  rest  of  the  night, 
and  asked  to  be  called  at  once  if  there  were  any  new 
symptoms.  His  house  was  just  around  the  corner, 
opposite  my  own ;  and  the  father  agreed  that  some- 
body should  sit  up,  ready  to  call  the  doctor  if  needed 
again  before  the  early  hour  at  vrhich  he  had  prom- 
ised to  return.     Dr.  M'cAll  said  that  Miss  Trust  was 


268  SWEET  HOME. 

doing  well,  and  that  she  would  sleep  off  her  nervous 
distress,  he  thought. 

"  Do  you  know  what  Dr.  M'cAll  prescribed  ?  " 

"  He  said  chloral,  sir." 

"  Did  he  happen  to  mention  the  dose  ?  " 

"  He  told  me  that  he  had  given  the  usual  dose  — 
no,  a  little  less  than  the  usual  dose." 

"  Are  you  sure  of  this  ?  " 

"  Perfectly  sure." 

"  He  did  not  speak  of  a  large  dose,  in  view  of  her 
great  distress  ?  Or  perhaps  he  repeated  the  first 
one  ?  " 

"  He  said  it  was  rather  less  than  the  usual  dose, 
and  he  did  not  repeat  it." 

"Did  you  stay  Avith  Miss  Trust  the  rest  of  the 
night  ?  " 

"  I  did,  sir.  She  slept  quietly,  and  I  thought  she 
was  doing  remarkably  well.  I  slept  some  myself, 
sitting  in  the  rocking-chair." 

"  AVhen  and  why  did  you  send  for  Dr.  M'cAll 
again  ?  " 

"  At  quarter  before  eight.  And  because  I  found 
her  as  you  saw.  I  sent  for  you  at  the  same  time. 
Pirky  stopped  for  Dr.  M'cAll,  and  then  he  went  for 
you.  By  some  mistake  he  came  back  here  first.  I 
told  him  to  hurr}^  back.  Understanding  her  condi- 
tion I  allowed  mj''  son  to  be  called ;  it  could  do  no 
harm,  and  it  was  his  right  to  be  present." 

"  What  did  Dr.  M'cAll  say  when  he  got  here  ?  " 

"  He  turned  round  —  like  that !  —  and  told  Pirky 
to  go  for  you  as  fast  as  he  could  go." 

"  What  else  did  he  say  ?  " 

''  Nothing." 


SWEET  HOME.  269 

"  Nothing  at  all  ?  " 

"  Not  one  word,  sir.  He  stood  and  looked  at  her. 
That  was  just  all.  He  saw  it  was  too  late  —  we  all 
did.  He  never  spoke  one  word  more  from  the  time 
he  got  here  till  he  spoke  to  yourself,  Dr.  Term,  and 
asked  you  :  '  Is  she  dead  ?  '  " 

Now  M'cAll,  who  should  surely  have  been  with 
me  by  this  time,  had  not  returned.  It  was  natural, 
under  the  circumstances,  that  he  should  be  loth  to 
hasten  back  to  that  house,  and  with  a  sudden  move- 
ment of  the  heart  toward  him,  —  my  pet  student, 
my  dear  boy,  the  sensitive,  promising,  conscientious 
young  fellow,  whose  mistake  I  could  well-nigh  have 
taken  upon  myself  if  I  might  have  spared  it  him,  — 
with  unbearable  pity  in  my  soul,  I  left  the  dead  and 
sought  the  living  sufferer. 

Dr.  M'cAll  occupied  a  suite  of  rooms  in  a  comfort- 
able boarding-house  not  far  from  my  own  house  ;  his 
offices,  reception  and  consultation  rooms  were  on  the 
first  floor,  and  as  I  ran  up  the  steps  and  was  hurry- 
ing in  to  find  him  I  was  met  by  James  Gumbrugeu 
face  to  face.  He  was  about  closing  the  front  door, 
and  was  exceedingly  agitated. 

"  I  was  just  coming  for  you,  doctor,"  he  said,  with 
a  scared  look.  "  They  sent  me.  Something  has  hap- 
pened. I  came  over  to  see  M'cAll  —  for  I  wanted  to 
talk  with  him  about  —  about  the  case.  I  've  nothing 
against  Dr.  M'cAll,  but  I  wanted  to  talk  with  him  a 
little.  Seems  as  if  he  'd  ought  to  known  she  was  — 
the  whole  thing 's  been  so  sudden,  doctor  !  I  —  she 
—  I'd  been  courting  her  four  years,  you  know.  We 
was  to  have  got  married  when  Pirky  grew  up.  I 
came  over  to  see  M'cAll  —  to  ask  him  some  questions 


270  SWEET  HOME. 

I  wanted  to  ask.  But  they  would  n't  let  me  see  him. 
Something  has  happened.  Mrs.  Chipper  sent  me  to 
bring  you  right  away.  She  told  me  to  bring  you,  and 
say  nothing  to  nobody,  and  I "  — 

I  broke  past  Gumbrugen  and  dashed  in.  M'cAll's 
landlady,  a  frivolous,  merry  little  woman,  met  me 
within  and  caught  me  by  the  hand  with  a  clutch 
that  made  my  heart  stand  still.  Mrs.  Chipper's  face 
was  one  of  those  rudimentary  feminine  faces  which 
never  seem  to  have  developed  beyond  the  stage  of 
cackling  laughter.  It  turned  itself  up  to  me,  blanched 
to  the  last  vein,  rigid,  and  cast  into  a  mould  of  hor- 
ror which  seemed  all  the  more  horrible  because  she 
usually  cackled. 

"  For  God's  sake.  Dr.  Ferm  —  shut  the  door  and 
keep  Gumbriigen  out.  Keep  everybody  out  —  for  the 
sake  of  the  house.  Help  me  to  keep  it  quiet  as  long 
as  I  can  !  Come  with  me.  .  .  .  This  way !  And 
tell  me  what  to  do  !  " 

She  led  me  down  the  hall,  through  a  side-door, 
into  the  consulting  -  room.  M'cAll  was  not  there. 
The  room  wore  its  usual  aspect,  and  gave  no  signs  of 
the  unknown  tragedy  which  I  had  dashed  in  expect- 
ing —  why  ?  —  to  find.  Folly  !  My  nerves  were  over- 
strained, shaken ;  I  flung  myself  into  his  chair  and 
opened  a  window,  and  occupied  myself  with  trying 
to  conceal  from  the  rudimentary  woman  the  shock 
which  she  had  given  me.  But  she  with  absolute 
composure  and  that  blanched,  clay  -  like  face,  was 
locking  the  door  —  all  the  doors  —  in  silence,  and 
with  a  purpose  in  Avliich  the  instinct  of  the  land- 
lady overcame  every  other  human  emotion. 

"  Now,"  she  said,  "  no  one  can  come  in.    See  here  ! " 


SWEET  HOME.  271 

I  was  sitting  in  M'cAll's  office-chair,  at  his  office- 
table  ;  the  table  was  littered  with  letters,  ledgers, 
note-books,  his  microscope,  laryngoscope,  a  volume  of 
therapeutics,  Gross's  Surgery,  and  so  on. 

On  the  table  a  piece  of  his  own  engraved  profes- 
sional note-paper  caught  my  eye.  Mrs.  Chipper,  with- 
out a  word,  put  her  shaking,  little,  ringed  linger 
upon  the  white  page.    At  the  top  of  it  was  written :  — 

"  My  dear  Doctor  "  — 

There  the  hand  had  paused.  The  purpose  had 
changed.  What  had  superseded  it?  The  ink  was 
still  damp. 

"  Now,"  said  the  landlady,  "  come  with  me."  She 
led  me  without  a  word,  and  without  a  word  I  fol- 
lowed. She  led  me  to  the  reception-room,  and  with  a 
mute,  womanly  sign  of  sympathy  to  prepare  me  for 
what  we  saw,  hid  her  frivolous  face  upon  her  hands 
and  sobbed  out  such  heart  as  she  had. 

Lloyd"  M'cAll  lay  upon  the  floor.  His  Smith  & 
Wesson  38  -  cartridge  revolver  lay  beside  him  half- 
clutched  yet  in  his  outstretched  hand.  He  had  come 
straight  from  Home  Trust's  death-bed,  locked  the 
door  of  his  reception-room,  forgotten  or  omitted  to 
lock  the  others  ;  held  counsel  with  his  own  soul  for 
such  time  as  he  would  or  could-;  put  the  muzzle  at 
the  base  of  the  brain,  and  fired.  When  the  report 
came,  the  landlady  (whose  lodgers,  chiefly  gentle- 
men, were  at  their  places  of  business,  and  hence  no 
publicity  had  yet  been  given  to  the  event)  had  the 
presence  of  mind  to  go  in  through  the  consulting- 
room  alone.   He  was  quite  dead  when  she  found  him. 

All  things   in   this  world  can  be   measured,  esti- 


272  SWEET  HOME. 

mated,  counted  upon,  brought  under  law,  forced  into 
science,  except  the  substance  and  movement  of  the 
spirit.  Of  air,  ocean,  earth,  we  can  predict.  Elec- 
tricity, steam,  flame,  we  can  conquer.  We  foreknow 
the  tornado,  forecast  the  pestilence,  and  calculate  the 
relation  of  unborn  generations  to  their  means  of  sub- 
sistence in  uninhabited  lands.  Who  has  ever  formu- 
lated human  joy  ?  Who  has  ever  brought  human 
suffering  under  a  binocular  ?  In  whose  crucible  has 
tiie  capacity  of  anguish  in  a  sensitive  —  in  what  we 
flippantly  and  ignorantly  call  a  morbid  —  soul  ever 
been  reduced  to  its  chemical  elements  ? 

Who  was  to  say  what  the  soul  of  Lloyd  M'cAU, 
supposing  himself  to  have  committed  the  ultimate 
blunder  of  his  profession,  at  the  outset  of  his  young 
life,  upon  the  patient  who  trusted  him,  upon  the 
woman,  whom  perhaps  (God  knows  !)'  he  loved ; 
who  was  to  say,  I  ask,  what  the  soul  of  Lloyd  M'c- 
All  endured  in  those  moments  which  sepaiftted  his 
discovery  of  the  facts  from  his  method  of  escaping 
their  corrosion  upon  his  will-power  ?  If  we  compute 
the  endurance  by  the  deed,  where  are  our  scales  to 
weigh  it  ?     I,  for  one,  have  none. 

However  that  may  be,  Sweet  Home  was  dead  from 
a  dose  of  chloral,  and  the  hand  that  had  uncon- 
sciously done  the  deed  had  consciously  done  the 
worse;  and  there  lay  the  two  that  June  morning, 
past  all  philosophy,  faith,  or  help.  And  life  and  law, 
and  order  and  trust  and  obedience  must  move  on 
without  a  jar  across  this  ghastly  obstruction,  and 
there  was  my  poor  boy  to  be  cared  for,  and  Mrs. 
Chipper  to  be  managed,  and  Gumbrugen  to  be  sent 
home  —  and  Dubby  Joe  to  appear  and  say  that  the 


SWEET  HOME.  273 

consultation  must  come  off  at  the  earliest  possible 
moment,  for  the  other  doctor  had  fits,  and  had  got  to 
go  —  and  like  a  spoke  in  the  wheel  of  fate  I  turned 
to  the  next  revolution. 

It  was  when  I  was  hurrying  back  from  the  con- 
sultation to  M'cAll's  rooms  that  Mrs.  Gumbrugen 
stopped  my  buggy.  She  was  watching  for  me,  with 
her  bonnet  and  shawl  on. 

"  I  know  you  have  n't  a  minute  to  spare,  doctor. 
But  I  've  got  something  to  tell  you.  I  thought  I  'd 
be  ready  to  jump  right  into  the  carriage.  I  '11  go 
over  there  with  you  if  you  say.     It  '11  save  time." 

Mrs.  Gumbrugen  never  wasted  words  or  con- 
structed scenes.  She  had  my  confidence  as  much  as 
my  probe  had.  I  took  her  in  and  took  her  there, 
and  shut  the  doors,  and  before  my  dear  boy's  body 
bade  her  speak. 

"  I  think  it  is  time,"  she  said,  "  for  me  to  tell  you 
all  I  know." 

"  Very  well,  Mrs.  Gumbrugen.  What  do  you 
know  ?  " 

"  Dr.  Ferm,  I  shall  surprise  you." 

"  The  more  reason  for  doing  so  at  once." 

"  He  did  not  do  it,  doctor." 

"  I  do  not  understand  you." 

"  Dr.  M'cAll's  prescription  was  not  the  cause  of 
Home  Trust's  death.  It  is  a  very  sad  business,  sir, 
but  not  that." 

"  Go  on,"  I  said,  after  a  moment's  hesitation. 

"  Dr.  M'cAll  should  have  waited,"  said  Mrs.  Gum- 
brugen with  some  feeling,  either  personal  or  profes- 
sional, or  both,  "  before  he  brought  this  thing  on  us 
—  to  be  talked  over.     He  should  have  known  that 


274  SWEET  HOME. 

the  dose  he  gave,  does  n't  do  that.  If  he  had  waited 
at  least  to  consult  with  you  or  me  —  he  might  have, 
I  think  ! " 

"  Poor  fellow  !  "  I  said. 

"  Well,  perhaps  so,  sir.  I  am  not  wishing  to  be 
uncharitable  to  a  dead  man  —  though  I  'm  not  so 
gentle  in  my  ways  as  yourself.  Dr.  Ferm,  and  I  am 
wrought  upon,  I'll  not  deny  it,  for  Jamie's  sake. 
See  here,  sir !  " 

She  drew  from  her  pocket  a  little  bottle,  which 
she  put  into  my  hand.  It  was  marked  Hydrate, 
Chloral,  and  bore  the  imprint  of  a  down-town  apoth- 
ecary. It  was  a  strong  solution.  The  bottle  was 
empty. 

Still  perplexed  or  dull,  I  turned  the  bottle  over 
and  over  in  my  hand,  helplessly  regarding  Mrs. 
Gumbrugen. 

"  It  was  hers,"  said  the  nurse,  in  a  lower  and  gen- 
tler tone.     "  She  did  it." 

"  She  did  it  ?  " 

"Home  took  it  herself,  Dr.  Term.  I  have  been 
uneasy  for  weeks.  I  did  not  like  the  way  she  talked 
nor  the  way  she  acted.  I  've  seen  too  much  of  such 
things.  She  's  been  a  low-spirited  woman  for  a  long 
time.  And  the  lower  her  spirits  the  more  she 
laughed  and  the  merrier.  That 's  her  way.  She  was 
discouraged  about  her  health,  I  think,"  added  Mrs. 
Gambrugen,  with  slow  emphasis.  "  She  had  every- 
thing else  to  be  contented  with.  She  was  going  to 
marry  my  boy.  If  you  please,  Dr.  Term "  —  the 
mother's  voice  faltered  —  "we  won't  tell  my  boy 
what  I  am  telling  you.  If  I  can  help  it,  I  'd  rather 
Jamie  wouldn't  know.  Jamie  was  very  fond  of 
her  "  — 


SWEET  HOME.  275 

"  I  found  this  bottle,"  continued  Mrs.  Gumbrugen, 
collecting  herself,  ^ifter  a  moment's  weakness,  "  un- 
der the  mattress  when  I  came  to  do  for  her.  I  am 
convinced  she  took  the  chloral  last  night.  Maybe  it 
was  to  get  to  sleep ;  maybe  it  was  n't.  There  's  no- 
body to  say.  I  know  Avhat  I  think !  She  took 
enough  —  as  you  see.  She  must  have  died.  When 
she  sent  for  Dr.  M'cAll,  she  was  a  poisoned  woman." 

"  And  he  gave  her  "  —     I  checked  myself. 

"  At  least  he  did  not  do  it !     He  did  not  do  it !  " 

I  turned  with  an  awful  yearning  to  the  mute 
j&gure  by  the  side  of  which  we  stood.  Had  death  no 
ears  to  hear  ?  Had  life  no  lips  to  cry  ?  Was  there 
in  all  science  and  all  faith,  in  fact  or  dream,  or'  in- 
vention or  creation,  no  way  to  make  him  under- 
stand ? 

"Dead  folks  are  dead  folks,"  said  Mrs.  Gum- 
brugen,  in  her  just,  orderly  voice.  "  It 's  the  living 
have  the  worst  of  things." 

I  did  not  go  home  to  lunch  that  day  till  the  last 
moment.  It  was  not  easy  to  go.  Come  what  might, 
I  Avould  not  darken  the  bridal  look  in  those  sweet 
eyes  with  the  grim  details  of  my  calling.  This  I 
was  resolved  upon. 

Perhaps  I  was  right ;  perhaps  I  was  wrong ;  but 
at  least  I  began  our  married  life  in  that  way,  out  of 
a  full  determination  to  spare  her  if,  and  all,  I  could. 
No  man  knows  quite  how  to  make  a  woman  happy 
in  the  wisest  way ;  and  years  after  I  may  have 
learned  to  reconsider  this  determination  for  her  own 
sake.  But  then  —  why,  we  had  not  been  married 
two  weeks ! 


276  SWEET  HOME. 

I  went  back  to  her  slowly.  As  I  began  to  put 
those  two  mute  faces  behind  me»  I  perceived  that  it 
was  still  June  —  hot,  bright,  blossoming,  singing 
June.  It  was  noon,  and  the  walls  that  held  what  I 
had  left  cast  no  shadow  upon  the  paved  streets 
across  which  I  moved.  When  I  came  to  my  own 
front  yard,  I  found  myself  counting  the  briclis 
again ;  but  this  time  I  finished  the  count.  There 
were  one  hundred  and  six. 

As  I  stood  with  my  hand  on  my  latch  a  spray  of 
the  creeper  leaned  over,  stirred  by  the  warm  wind, 
and  seemed  to  observe  me  ;  the  perfume  was  almost 
sickeningly  sweet.  Involuntarily,  I  put  out  my 
hand  and  pushed  ths  flower  back. 

June,  home,  hope,  love  —  these  were  in  the  world ; 
but  was  the  world  of  these  ? 

I  went  in  softly.  She  did  not  hear  me  at  first. 
She  was  in  the  inner  room,  our  dining-room,  arran- 
ging grape  leaves  about  the  strawberries  in  a  glitter- 
ing glass  dish ;  her  white  hands  shone  against  the 
red  fruit.  She  still  wore  that  pretty  morning  gown, 
but  had  put  fresh  color — so  I  saw  —  in  the  ribbons 
at  her  throat  and  waist.  As  I  stood,  to  watch  her, 
the  long  curtain  blew  again  in  the  peaceful  wind, 
with  a  dainty,  idle  motion,  as  if  nothing  harder  or 
sadder  than  its  pretty  play  had  been  done  in  our  dear 
home  that  summer  morning  long. 

She  Avas  humming  to  herself,  below  her  breath, 
not  knowing  that  she  was  overheard,  and  I  made  out 
that  she  sang  snatches  of  the  same  song  which  had 
beaten  time  in  her  happy  thoughts  since  I  left  her  all 
those  houjs  ago  :  — 

"  Bevond  the  sea  of  death  love  lies." 


SWEET  HOME.  277 

Turning  at  last  with  the  languorous  sweet  motion 
of  happiness  and  ease,  my  young  wife  moved  and 
saw  me.  She  stretched  out  her  lovely  arms,  and, 
half  in  shyness,  half  in  rapturou.s  impulse,  met  me  — 
like  a  soft  wave  of  joy  broken  upon  the  shore  of  my 
heart. 

"  Were  you  too  late,  dear  Love  ? "  she  asked. 
And  presently,  for  I  did  not  answer,  —  could  not, 
dared  not  answer,  —  she  stirred  and  put  her  hand 
upon  my  cheek,  and  said :  — 

"  Happy,  Hurlburt  ?  " 

But  when  I  put  her  down  and  moved  apart  to  hide 
my  agitated  face,  my  dear  one,  in  the  very  brimming 
of  her  joy,  broke  into  clear  and  passionate  singing, 
half  unconscious  that  she  did ;  and  while  she  drew 
the  blinds  and  gathered  the  green  shadow  into  our 
cool,  still  home,  and  shut  out  the  world,  and  shut  in 
ourselves,  and  shut  out  sorrow,  and  shut  in  delight, 
and  shut  out  all  hard  things  and  all  cruel  questions, 
and  shut  in  all  blessed  truths  and  all  simple  answers, 
thus  again  I  heard  her  sing  :  — 

"  Beyond  the  sea  of  death  love  lies. 
Forever,  yesterday,  to-day, 
Angels  shall  ask  them,  '  Is  it  well  ?  ' 
And  they  shall  answer  " — 


TOO  LATE. 

JoH?r  True  came  home  from  his  work  one  day 
■with  a  slower  step  than  usual.  It  was  a  June  day 
in  1861.  John  True  lived  in  Dogberry,  a  Massar 
chusetts  village.  He  was  a  house-painter  by  trade, 
and  had  on  his  working  clothes,  which  were  not  be- 
coming, being  of  an  unassured  bleached-cotton  color 
to  begin  with,  and  splashed  with  conflicting  tones  of 
paint,  in  which  red  had  obtained  a  murderous  pre- 
dominance. But  John  had  one  of  the  figures  that 
conquer  clothes ;  he  swung  easily  at  the  hips,  car- 
ried a  straight  shoulder,  and  put  down  an  elastic 
foot.  He  had  curly  hair,  and  the  indefinable  ex- 
pression in  the  background  of  the  eyes,  belonging  to 
a  man  who  has  a  happy  home. 

It  was  not  a  sharply  individualized  home,  seen 
from  the  outside,  being  a  cheap  white  house,  like 
other  cheap  white  houses  in  Dogberry ;  too  heavy  in 
the  brows,  too  narrow  in  the  cheeks,  uncertain  in 
the  jaws,  and  of  a  chilly  expression.  It  had  white 
shades  and  a  white  fence,  and  an  acre  or  two  of  land, 
wherein  nature  seemed  to  relieve  herself  in  a  gasp 
of  green,  and  to  dash  up  the  deep  sepia  loam,  where 
the  potatoes  grew,  in  a  riotous  outburst  of  personal 
feeling.  There  were  currant-bushes  in  the  garden, 
and  a  tall  cherry-tree,  which  budded  late,  now  pale 
with  dropping   blossoms.      As    the   master  of    the 


TOO  LATE.  279 

house  came  up  the  front  yard  he  stopped  to  examine 
the  cinnamon  rose-bush,  and  looked  over  at  the  cab- 
bages in  the  southwest  corner. 

A  child's  voice  came  through  the  open  door  and 
windows  —  a  little  boy's  voice ;  he  was  singing  ;  he 
sang  one  of  the  Sunday-school  hymns  taught  in  the 
emaciated  (white)  meeting-house  on  the  hill  beyond 
the  village.  The  result  of  his  musical  effort  was 
somewhat  to  this  effect :  — 

"  My  omeizzen  Ye-ev-in^,  my 
Resizzenere  ; 
Ven  wy  slioulda  ma-a-ma, 
If  twyalsypere  ?  " 

Another  voice  sounded  clearly  within,  but  that 
one  sang  a  wordless  lullaby,  "  'sh-shing  "  to  sleep  a 
gurgling  baby  ;  and  neither  the  coo  nor  the  lullaby 
struck  a  false  note  against  the  shrilling  song  of  the 
theologically  minded  little  musician,  who  piped  on 
gloriously. 

John  True,  out  by  the  cinnamon  rose-bush,  said  to 
himself :  — 

"  Happy  to-day,  ain't  they  ?  "  And  then,  when 
he  had  said  it  to  himself,  he  said  it  aloud  to  the 
roses  :  — 

"  The  folks  seem  happy  to-day,  don't  they  ?  " 

Nobody  from  within  had  seen  him  yet,  and  he 
lingered  about,  fussing  with  the  bush.  In  general, 
he  held  that  the  floral  kingdom  was  created  for  the 
amusement  of  the  female  mind  ;  cabbages  called  for 
a  certain  masculine  force.  But  he  picked  a  rose- 
bud, clumsily,  before  he  went  to  examine  the  cab- 
bages, which  he  did  with  a  vague  attention  that 
overflowed  upon  the  potato-patch  ;  he  had  a  sense  of 


280  TOO  LATE. 

strengthening  his  character  by  concentration  upon 
these  sturdier  facts.  It  took  him  a  good  while  to 
get  into  the  house. 

He  came  at  last,  with  what  seemed  a  reluctant 
step,  in  which  there  was  this  curious  thing  to  be  no- 
ticed, that  he  trod  softly,  like  a  man  who  is 'afraid 
that  he  shall  wake  the  sleeping.  Yet  clearly  the 
baby  had  nothing  to  do  with  it,  for  little  Mrs.  True's 
was  one  of  those  exceptionally  blessed  households 
in  which  the  baby's  nap  is  not  a  thing  of  terror  and 
a  gloom  forever  to  all  mature  existence.  As  a  rule, 
the  more  noise  you  made,  the  better  the  True  babies 
slept. 

The  door  was  open,  as  I  said,  and  John  True 
stepped  in  on  tiptoe.  A  rag  mat,  clean  enough  but 
very  old,  lay  in  the  little  entry  ;  he  looked  down  at 
it  as  he  entered,  wiping  his  feet,  which  were  dusty 
dry,  with  mechanical  patience.  The  mat  had  a  blue 
flannel  rose  on  it,  touched  off  in  black  alpaca  on  one 
of  the  petals  where  the  flannel  had  given  out.  A 
child's  tin  horse,  without  a  head,  stood  in  the  entry, 
and  trundled  about  when  his  foot  hit  it. 

The  little  tinkling  noise  betrayed  his  presence, 
and  the  lullaby  in  the  inner  room  stopped  abruptly. 
A  woman's  voice  said  :  — 

«  That  you  ?  " 

"It's  me,"  said  John.  He  hung  his  hat  up  and 
stood  hesitating.  The  little  boy  was  singing  with 
piercing  shrillness :  — 

"  Wy  shoulda  ma-a-wio 
If  twyalsypere  ? 
My  omeizzen  Ye-ev  "  — 

"'Sh-sh,  Tommy  !  "  interrupted  the  woman's  voice, 


TOO  LATE.  281 

dropping  on  meanwhile  contentedly  into  her  lullaby. 
"  Go  see  who  that  is  in  the  entry,  Tommy.  'Sh-sh- 
sh-h,  my  dear !     Lie  still  and  slu-umber  !  " 

Tommy  checked  himself  in  the  midst  of  his  reli- 
gious aspirations  and  ran  to  the  door,  where  he  stood 
peering  —  a  pleasant  little  rogue,  well  built  and  red ; 
he  had  on  a  green  gingham  apron,  and  had  been  eat- 
ing gingerbread.     Tommy  said  :  — 

"  Wy,  it 's  Fup]iev !  "  with  the  eternal  surprise  of 
childhood,  to  which  all  things  are  forever  new.  His 
father  patted  him  on  the  head,  and  said  :  — 

"  There,  there ! "  while  he  re-hung  his  stained 
straw  hat,  which  had  tumbled  down.  The  hat  was 
brown,  and  had  a  row  of  air-holes  perforated  about 
the  crown  —  a  new  fashion  then.  True  began  to 
count  them  as  he  stood  staring.  The  child  crept 
back  and  tugged  at  his  mother.  True  heard  him 
tell  her  that  "Pupper"  didn't  kiss  him,  but  only 
spatted  him.  The  mother  crooned  on  to  the  gur- 
gling baby. 

"  I  believe  I  '11  change  my  clothes  first,"  called 
John,  without  entering  the  room. 

The  lullaby  stopped  short. 

"Why,  John!" 

John  flushed,  and  went  in  at  once.  As  he  entered 
the  room,  details  blurred  and  slipped  away  before 
his  eyes  ;  he  perceived  chiefly  that  the  windows  and 
blinds  were  open,  and  the  late  summer  light  came 
quivering  into  the  western  corner  of  the  room  where 
the  woman  sat  with  the  baby  ;  the  child  fell  heavily 
back  upon  her  long,  maternal  arms  away  from  her 
half-draped  breast.  The  light  blinded  her  a  little, 
and  she  moved  out  of  it,  holding  up  her  face  like  a 


282  TOO  LATE. 

Madonna  to  the  Lord.  John  kissed  her  with  the  si- 
lent reverence  with  which  even  a  house-painter,  my 
aesthetic  friends,  may  kiss  his  wife  wlien  she  gets 
one  of  these  aureolas  about  her. 

'^  Now,  Father,"  she  said,  with  sweet  mock  re- 
proach in  a  voice  to  which  clearly  reproaching  was 
not  natural,  "  you  may  go  change  your  clothes  !  The 
idea !  I  guess  it  would  have  been  the  first  time  for 
twelve  years,  would  n't  it,  Tommy  ?  Think  of  Pup- 
per  stopping  to  clean  up  before  he  kissed  us, 
Tommy  ! " 

"  I  'd  got  an  extra  daub  on  to-day,"  said  John 
True,  glancing  down  at  his  unbleached  cotton  blouse 
and  overalls.  "  I  've  been  to  work  to  Seth  Grimace's. 
There  seemed  to  be  such  lots  of — red." 

He  went  away  into  the  shed  and  hung  up  the 
splashed  and  spattered  clothes.  It  took  him  longer 
than  usual  to  "clean  up,"  a  process  which  he  con- 
ducted by  the  aid  of  the  yard  pump  and  kitchen 
roller.  Some  of  the  paints  especially  w^ould  not 
come  off  his  fingers,  even  for  the  turpentine. 

"  I  hate  to  paint  a  red  house,"  he  said. 

His  wife  called  him  two  or  three  times  to  supper 
before  he  answered  :  — 

"Yes,  yes,  Mary,"  and  with  a  deep  breath  joined 
himself  to  them.  He  felt  all  the  dear  and  delicate 
currents  of  daily  life  sw^eep  him  on.  It  was  like 
any  other  supper,  after  all.  He  sat,  shining  and 
soapy,  at  the  head  of  the  pine  table.  Tommy  was 
beside  him  ;  the  baby  was  sound  asleep  in  the  sitting- 
room.  Their  mother  had  brushed  her  hair,  and  sat 
smiling.  She  talked  about  the  doughnuts  and  the 
hash.     He  ate  both  wath  relish  —  he  felt  very  hun- 


TOO  LATE.  283 

gry.  Everything  seemed  to  be  going  on,  and  would 
go  on  forever. 

"  Where 's  Sissy  ?  "  asked  John  suddenly,  laying 
down  a  pickled  cucumber  that  was  already  melting 
at  his  lips. 

"  Why,  she 's  gone  to  the  Sunday-school  picnic, 
you  know,"  said  Sissy's  mother.  "  She  wore  her 
pink  cambric.  I  gave  her  some  of  that  cold  mutton, 
with  the  sausage  and  pie.  I  made  her  take  the  um- 
brella, in  case  it  should  rain.  She  won't  get  home 
before  nine.     Jenny  Severby  went  with  her." 

"  They  've  got  a  letter  from  Severby.  He  ain't 
wounded  much,"  said  John  absently.  He  was  think- 
ing about  Sissy,  and  to  himself  he  said :  "  One  less." 

He  was  glad  Sissy  was  at  the  picnic,  and  yet  he 
wished,  too,  that  she  were  at  home ;  an  empty  place 
made  the  table  look  so.  He  finished  his  pickle,  and 
took  another  doughnut. 

"I  hain't  had  squshed  pienough,"  announced 
Tommy  at  this  juncture.  This  was  a  point  upon 
which  Tommy  and  his  mother  cherished  differences 
of  opinion,  and  a  gentle  domestic  flurry  celebrated 
the  controversy.  It  was  difficult  even  for  his  par- 
ents to  conceive  the  inconceivable,  so  far  as  to  be- 
lieve that  any  boy  could  cry  louder  than  Tommy. 
John  ate  on  calmly;  he  was  used  to  it,  and  Mary 
had  a  way  with  the  child.  He  wondered  sometimes 
which  groggery  he  shoidd  have  selected,  if  he  had 
married  a  scolding  wife.  Simpson's  had  its  advan- 
tages, but  Joe's  was  farther  from  home.  This  was 
the  deepest  metaphysical  speculation  in  which  John 
True  had  ever  gone  adrift.  He  pursued  it  dreamily 
now,  as  Tommy,  subsiding  from  agony  to  theology, 


284  TOO  LATE. 

as  so  many  wiser  than  Tommy  had  done  before  him, 
struck  up  again  :  — 

"  My  omeizzen  Ye-ev-ing,  my 
Resizzenere  ; 
Ven  wy  shoulda  ma-a-ma 
If  twyalsypere  ?  " 

"  "What  is  that  boy  singing  ?  "  asked  his  father. 
"  Why,  it 's  plain  enough,  I  'm  sure,"  said  Mary, 
in  a  gently  reproving  tone.     "  He  says  :  — 

'  My  home  is  in  Heaven, 
My  rest  is  not  here  ; 
Then  why  should  I  nmrmur 
If  trials  appear  ?  ' 

It 's  easy  enough  to  understand  the  boy.  He  speaks 
very  plain,  I  'm  sure  he  does.  I  think  he 's  going  to 
have  a  beautiful  voice  when  he  's  old  enough.  Let 's 
send  him  to  singing-school,  John,  sha'n't  we  ?" 

"  I  guess  I  '11  go  and  get  my  smoke,"  said  John. 
But  he  came  back  in  a  moment,  fumbling  awkwardly 
in  his  pocket,  whence  he  drew  an  abject-looking  cin- 
namon rosebud,  which  Tommy  had  freely  sat  on 
more  or  less  during  the  evening  meal. 

"  I  meant  to  have  put  it  in  your  gown  before  sup- 
per, Mary."  John  came  bashfully  up,  and  held  the 
flower  between  his  thumb  and  little  finger. 

His  wife  said :  "  You  dear  old  thing  !  "  for  he  did 
not  often  give  her  flowers.  He  was  not  one  of  those 
men.  She  put  the  rose  in  her  bosom  coquettishly, 
and  nodded  at  him.  A  fine  color  flowed  over  her 
face.  She  felt  ten  years  younger,  and  looked  five. 
She  began  to  sing,  as  she  washed  the  dishes,  on  a 
full  Baptist  -  choir  soprano,  merrily  joining  Tommy 
in  the  statement  that  his  home  was  in  Heaven,  till  it 


TOO  LATE.  285 

seemed  to  become  a  general  family  joke,  they  were 
all  in  such  spirits  about  it. 

John  listened  to  them  as  he  sat  smoking  on  the 
back  door-steps.  He  looked  over  the  potato-field  ; 
the  arms  of  the  cherry-tree  leaned  around  the  corner 
of  the  house  toward  him  ;  the  chickens  came  up  and 
pecked  confidingly  at  his  boots,  but  the  rooster  dis- 
liked tobacco  and  kept  at  a  distance.  Tommy  came 
out  and  strangled  him  from  behind  with  two  little 
green-checked  arms.  The  child's  kisses  produced 
the  effect  of  a  vertigo  upon  the  man.  He  got  up  to 
put  away  his  pipe,  and  stood  staggering. 

His  wife  came  out  and  talked  about  the  cherries 
and  the  chickens.  She  hung  upon  him,  and  they 
wandered  about  the  little  yard  and  garden  till  the 
sun  sank  behind  the  meeting-house  belfry,  and  the 
currant  leaves  looked  no  longer  like  thin  gold,  but 
like  thick  agate  or  lava,  and  drooped  with  dew.  In 
the  sky,  purple  forms,  like  banners,  came  up  and  on, 
and  the  mists  in  the  valley  moved  solemnly,  as  if 
they  had  been  thoughts.  In  the  fading  of  the  day 
the  woman's  face  seemed  to  grow  shrunken  and  des- 
olate. 

"  You  look  thin,"  said  John. 

"  I  don't  feel  thin,"  said  Mary. 

It  seemed  she  was  not  thinking  about  the  sunset, 
but  about  the  potatoes.  She  had  many  questions. 
Should  they  plant  pink-eyes  next  year  ?  How  did 
the  new  fertilizer  affect  the  cabbages  ?  Might  n't 
she  have  a  fuchsia  and  three  geraniums  under  the 
L  window  ?  Tommy  must  have  a  swing  on  the 
cherry-tree.  In  the  fall,  where  should  we  put  Sissy's 
teeter-board  ?     She  'd  been  promised  one  in  Septem- 


286  TOO  LATE. 

ber.  And  when  should  the  chicken-house  be  painted 
red  ?  And,  John,  could  we  get  a  rabbit  for  Tom  ? 
And,  John,  did  Sissy  grow  so  fast  that  we  must  cut 
her  hair  ? 

"Don't  you  think  it's  getting  a  little  damp?" 
asked  John. 

He  spoke  in  the  high  throat-voice  his  wife  was 
used  to  when  he  had  the  toothache.     She  said :  — 

"  What !  that  old  wisdom  at  it  again  ?  Poor  fel- 
low !  "  and  reached  up  to  pat  him  upon  the  cheek  be- 
fore she  took  the  boy  in. 

He  Avatched  them  as  they  went.  Tommy,  half 
asleep,  leaned  heavily,  tugging  at  his  mother's 
bright  calico  dress,  which  in  the  dusk  had  faded  to  a 
gloomy  color.  Mary  half  lifted,  half  led  the  little 
fellow.  The  baby  woke,  and  cried  faintly  from  the 
dark  'house. 

John  True  stood  under  the  cherry-tree  and  stared 
after  them.  He  did  not  smoke  any  more.  He  felt 
the  delicate  white  blossoms  falling  to  the  ground 
around  him. 

He  was  a  man  to  whom  nothing  had  ever  hap- 
pened. The  impossibility  of  change  was  like  the 
remoteness  of  death.  Hg  tried  to  fix  his  mind  upon 
the  passing  hour.  He  thought  of  little  things.  It 
occurred  to  him  that  he  would  go  into  the  house  and 
look  at  the  green  check  on  Tommy's  apron. 

The  lamps  were  lighted  before  he  got  in,  and  he 
groped  dizzily  toward  them  through  the  heavy, 
sweet-scented  night  air,  across  the  narrow  yard. 
His  wife  glanced  at  him  as  he  came  in,  but  did  not 
at  the  moment  speak.  She  had  brown  eyes  and 
brown   hair,  and   always   looked   prettier  by  lamp- 


TOO  LATE.  287 

light.  She  had  put  the  cinnamon  rose  into  her  hair 
because  the  baby  snatclied  at  it. 

John  sat  down  on  the  hair-cloth  sofa  in  the  sit- 
ting-room while  Tommy  was  being  put  to  bed.  He 
felt  like  a  visitor  in  his  own  house.  Tommy  kissed 
him  good-night  hilariously,  and  said  his  prayers  for 
Pupper  in  a  metrical  manner,  closely  resembling  the 
tune  of  "  Three  Little  Kittens,"  and  replacing  by  an 
emphatic  Amen  the  historic  "basket  of  saw-aw« 
dust." 

Then  Sissy  came  home  from  the  picnic.  Sissy  was 
a  tall,  bleached  girl  with  freckles,  and  wore  her  hair 
in  two  long  braids  behind.  She  did  not  look  like 
her  mother  or  her  father,  but  like  a  queer  great- 
aunt  who  made  an  iinfortunate  marriage.  It  was 
necessary  to  talk  a  great  deal  about  the  picnic,  and 
Sissy  had  lost  the  umbrella. 

John  remembered  that  he  had  not  collected  his 
mind  by  counting  the  squares  on  Tommy's  apron, 
which  had  disappeared  with  Tommy ;  it  seemed  that 
a  great  opportunity  was  lost. 

But  Sissy  too  was  tired,  and  would  go  to  bed. 
When  she  came  to  say  good-night,  her  father  asked 
her  how  old  she  was,  and  Sissy  told  him  she  was 
eleven,  and  her  mother  said  :  — 

"  Why,  John  !  what  a  funny  question  ! "  And 
John  said  nothing  at  all.  And  so,  presently.  Sissy 
too  had  gone  to  bed,  and  her  mother  went  up  with 
her ;  and  John  said  he  would  finish  his  smoke. 

He  did  not  smoke,  however,  but  stood  in  the  sit- 
ting-room where  they  had  left  him.  When  he  was 
quite  alone,  he  stretched  his  arms  with  one  might}^, 
pathetic  gesture  above  his  head.     The  awful  power 


288  TOO  LATE. 

of  a  human  home  was  on  him  ;  he  felt  as  helpless 
before  it  as  the  child  in  the  cradle.  His  soul  shot 
out  tendrils  everywhere ;  he  could  have  clasped  the 
tall  rocking-chair,  the  baby's  sock  that  had  fallen 
beneath  it,  the  old  mat  that  stood  before  his  wife's 
sewing-chair,  the  scraps  of  her  work  scattered  about. 
Her  voice  and  Sissy 's  came  from  the  bedroom  above. 
Tommy  was  singing  himself  to  sleep  with  a  droning 
sound : — 

"  My  ome  —  izzen  Ye-ev-ing. " 

"  I'll  het  the  chap  that  wrote  that  never  had  one  to 
his  name  amjwheres  else  !  "  cried  John  True. 

Mary  came  down -stairs.  As  she  entered,  she 
glanced  at  him,  but  said  nothing. 

She  moved  about  with  gentle  bustle,  picking  up 
scraps  of  cloth  and  spools,  and  the  children's  play- 
things ;  she  drew  the  green  paper  shades,  and 
smoothed  the  worn  red  table-cloth,  and  pulled  her 
rocking-chair  around  away  from  the  light. 

"  Wy  shoulda  ma-a-Twa  ?  " 

sang  Tommy,  and  so  sank  into  his  first  nap,  from 
which  he  aroused  but  once  to  ejaculate  — 
"  Twyalsypere !  " 

in  a  firm  voice,  before  silence  settled  for  that  summer 
night  upon  the  cheap  white  house. 

Mary  True  sat  beside  her  husband  in  the  quiet 
room ;  she  was  run-and-baek-stitching  the  seam  on  a 
red  delaine  dress  for  Sissy. 

"  It 's  her  fall  dress,"  she  said,  "  but  I  thought  I  'd 
begin.  I  made  it  over  out  of  that  one  of  mine  —  do 
you  remember,  John  ?  " 

"  I  guess  so,"  said  John,  with  a  mighty  effort  of 


TOO  LATE.  289 

the  imagination.  "  It  looks  as  if  I  'd  seen  some 
woman  wear  it.     I  guess  I  remember  it,  Mary," 

"  Why,  John  !  It 's  the  dress  I  had  made  up  one 
wedding-day  two  years  ago,  to  surprise  you  in.  And, 
John !  you  kissed  me  three  times  extra  in  it  the 
night  I  put  it  on,  and  said  I  looked  younger  than 
Clara  Severby.  I  should  think  even  a  mail  would 
remember  that ! "  with  great  contempt, 

"  Why,  yes,  I  said  I  remembered  it,"  replied  John 
meekly,  "Clara  looks  old,"  he  went  on,  ''since 
Severby  —  are  you  going  to  send  Sissy  to  the  High 
School,  Mary  ?  " 

"I  —  have  always  thought  we  would  educate  Sissy," 
said  Sissy's  mother,  speaking  slowly,  "  And  John, 
dear " — 

"  Well,  Mary  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  suppose  "  — 

"  Don't  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  think  we  might,  somehotv,  manage  — 
other  folks  do  that  ain't  better  off  than  we  are  — 
don't  you  think  we  might  —  if  I  did  n't  have  any 
new  dresses,  John,  only  the  children's  things  —  and 
if  we  did  n't  have  much  doctoring —  don't  you  think 
we  might  send  him  to  college  ?  " 

"  Send  who  to  college  —  Severby  ?  " 

"  I  meant  Tommy,"  said  Mary,  hanging  her  brown 
head,  "  but  I  know  it 's  "  — 

"  Yes,  Mary,  it  is,"  answered  John  in  a  deep  voice. 
"  The  boy  must  work  —  like  his  father  —  he  must 
help  you  —  he  must  help  us  all,  God  must  help  us 
all," 

He  got  up  and  paced  the  little  room,  shook  off  her 
hand  :  then,  returning,  lifted  her  work-worn  lingers 


290  TOO  LATE. 

with  the  courtliness  of  love,  close  to  his  set,  strong 
lips. 

The  woman  had  dropped  her  sewing  now.  Sissy's 
red  dress-waist  fell  to  the  floor.  Her  mother,  after 
a  moment's  silence,  picked  it  up,  folded  it  methodi- 
cally and  laid  it  away  for  the  night. 

"  I  think  I  '11  go  see  if  the  children  are  covered 
up,"  she  said  lightly.     "  It  has  changed  to  the  east," 

The  rocker  of  her  little  sewing-chair  creaked  as 
she  moved ;  Tommy  half  waked  and  called  her ;  and, 
from  the  inner  room,  she  could  be  heard  hushing  the 
stirring  baby  in  inarticulate,  beautiful,  maternal  poly- 
syllables. The  east  wind  drove  in  at  the  open  front 
door,  and  sounds  from  the  distant  village,  broken, 
stirring,  and  solemn,  came  in. 

Mary  came  back  soon  enough,  and  they  sat  to- 
gether and  talked  of  many  things.  Her  thoughts 
ran  wild  with  the  future  that  night :  what  trades  the 
boys  would  like  ;  how  old  Sissy  should  be  when  she 
married ;  whether  he,  John,  would  grow  tired  of  her, 
Mary,  when  she  grew  old.  They  talked  about  a  new 
oil-cloth  in  the  entry  and  the  prevention  of  pro- 
fanity in  a  boy  like  Tom.  They  discussed  the  lin- 
ing to  the  kitchen  stove  and  the  last  lie  that  Sissy 
told.  They  considered  the  price  of  rump-steaks  and 
whether,  if  John  were  a  church-member,  he  would 
have  family  prayers.  They  talked  of  when  he  must 
have  new  shirts  and  how  long  they  had  been  mar- 
ried. They  criticised  the  old  rooster  and  the  new 
minister.  They  spoke  of  the  pudding  they  would 
have  to-morrow  and  the  good  they  would  have  done 
if  they  had  been  rich  people.  They  spoke  of  the  last 
time  they  were  cross  to  each  other  and  of  how  they 
would  love  each  other  forty  years  t-o  come. 


TOO  LATE.  291 

John  got  himself  through  it  all  in  a  stern,  soldierly 
fashion.  He  kept  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  head 
at  first,  and  gave  her  his  sad,  straightforward  eyes, 
regarding  her  with  the  pathetic  reticence  character- 
istic of  certain  men  ;  his  look  seemed  to  lift  her  up 
as  if  she  had  been  one  of  the  children  like  Sissy  or 
Tom,  and  to  hold  her  to  the  heart  of  thoughts  as  un- 
spoken as  his  pure  and  perfect  love.  It  Avas  as  if 
this  awful  individuality  of  the  purpose  of  a  man 
stepped  out  like  another  being  between  the  husband 
and  the  wife,  and  made  three  of  them.  She  appre- 
hended it  before  she  spoke.  She  was  not  wise 
enough  to  put  it  into  words,  but  she  felt,  from  the 
bottom  of  her  heart,  and  knew,  from  the  limits  of  her 
understanding,  that  she  had  for  the  first  time  come 
up  against  that  in  the  man's  nature  with  which  she, 
Mary,  his  wife,  whom  he  had  sworn  to  cherish  till 
death  did  part  them,  could  not,  by  might  or  right  or 
love  or  longing,  hope  to  intermeddle. 

As  they  talked,  her  face  blanched  sadly ;  but  she 
was  not  a  crying  woman;  she  looked  steadily  on 
straight  before  her.  She  had  been  sitting  in  the  low 
rocker  all  this  while  without  her  work,  her  hands,  in 
the  rare  and  awkward  idleness  of  a  working- woman, 
crossed  clumsily  in  her  lap.  She  had  not  touched 
him. 

But  now,  at  last,  she  put  out  her  fingers  and  slid 
them  timidly  into  his.  She  rose  then,  and,  still 
timidly,  she  gave  him  the  other  hand.  ¥or  a  mo- 
ment so,  she  looked  down  at  him. 

"  John,"  she  said,  "  do  you  want  to  take  me  in 
your  lap  a  minute  ?  " 

In  the  silence  he  held  up  his  shaking  arms.     The 


292  TOO  LATE. 

distant  drum-beat  from  the  village  sounded  out  as 
she  crept  to  him. 

"  John,  do  you  —  Oh,  hush  !  hush  !  Oh,  I  k7iow 
you  love  me  !  Oh,  I  won't  ask  !  I  '11  never  be  so 
cruel.  I  '11  save  you,  dear  —  you  shall  not  tell.  Oh, 
my  poor  boy  !  my  dear  boy  !  I  know  you  have  en- 
listed.    I  knew  it  when  yon  first  came  home  ! " 

II. 

The  crimson  panorama  was  comfortably  folded 
aAvay  at  last  from  our  sensitive  sight.  The  dis- 
banded armies  and  the  disbanded  lives  had  dispersed 
as  best  they  might.  The  silken  battle-flags,  splashed 
and  rent,  were  aesthetically  draped  in  the  State 
Houses,  and  still  pointed  out  to  rural  visitors  on  a 
pleasant  Saturday  afternoon.  The  birds  sang  shrilly 
in  the  great  cemeteries  at  Arlington,  at  Gettysburg, 
and  the  rest.  The  old  uniform  was  cut  over  to  make 
a  coat  for  the  boy.  Men  had  learned  to  pass  the  red 
cap  of  the  messenger  without  touching  their  own. 
Women  had  already  dared  to  scold  the  saved  soldier, 
for  whose  life  they  would  have  sold  their  souls.  The 
crape  was  worn  out,  and  the  tears  were  dry.  It  was 
beginning  to  be  too  much  to  ask  of  one  to  follow  the 
procession  on  Decoration  Day.  It  was  ten  years 
after  the  war. 

It  was  wearing  to  the  end  of  a  November  day,  and 
a  poor  sort  of  day  even  at  that.  The  wind  had  blown 
from  the  east  for  forty-eight  hours,  and  was  rising 
still.  The  trees  objected  heavily  to  this  fact  with 
groaning  bare  boughs,  and  in  these  little  suburban 
places  there  seemed  to  be  a  dismal  superfluity  of 


TOO  LATE.  293 

trees.  They  stood  about  forlornly  in  rows,  like  vet- 
erans wlio  were  no  longer  wanted.  Now  that  the 
elm  and  maple  leaves  lay  crushing  paralytically 
under  foot,  or  whirled  hysterically  overhead  and 
athwart  through  the  gray  air,  of  what  use  Avas  all 
this  gauntness  of  outline  and  tenacity  of  existence, 
except  to  drip  into  one's  eyes  and  make  the  houses 
damp  ? 

It  was  going  to  rain  when  it  could  make  up  its 
mind  to.  No  one  stayed  out-of-doors  who  could 
help  it.  The  pedestrians  were  few  out  here  in  these 
wide  spaces.  The  afternoon  drives  were  over.  The 
fat  horses  had  bowled  the  carriages  away  to  the 
luxurious  stables.  Ladies  prattled  shivering  within, 
and  ordered  the  parlor-fire  lighted.  The  gentlemen 
had  come  earlier,  and  crosser,  than  usual  from  their 
business.  The  lap-dogs  sat  in  the  bay-windows,  oc- 
cupying crimson  cushions  and  wearing  bows  to 
match.  The  horse-car  on  the  long  single  track  made 
the  chief  sign  of  motion  in  the  windy  dusk,  unless 
one  noticed  the  newsboy  or  had  a  personal  stake  in- 
volved in  the  coming  of  the  evening  express.  Even 
the  leaves  had  the  air  of  trying  to  get  in-doors,  and 
the  whirls  of  dust  wore  a  dejected  look,  as  of  objects 
dependent  on  private  charity  for  shelter. 

It  was  no  night,  it  was  no  place,  for  a  peddler,  as 
anybody  but  a  peddler  would  have  known.  The 
poor  felloAV  who  came  toiling  on  behind  the  half-past 
live  Scotch-plaid  horse-car,  which  had  stopped  to  let 
off  the  stout  gentleman  at  the  large,  high-art  green 
house  that  stood  back  from  the  street,  looked  as  if 
he  would  have  shown  more  discouragement  if  he  had 
been  more  used  to  hope.     He  walked  most  wearily, 


294  TOO  LATE. 

and  as  one  observed  him  one  might  have  seen  that  it 
was  the  weariness  of  disease,  which  differs  from  that 
of  healthy  fatigue  with  a  kind  of  distinction  that  the 
well  cannot  perceive.  He  had  a  little  bag  or  knap- 
sack strapped  across  his  shoulders  in  an  easy  way, 
as  if  they  were  well  used  to  it ;  he  bore  it,  indeed, 
with  a  certain  grace.  He  had  the  figure  of  a  man 
who  would  have  walked  erect  if  he  had  been  well. 
He  was  tall  and  well  put  together.  He  had  a  pair 
of  fine  blue  eyes,  but  these  no  comfortable  person 
would  have  cared  to  examine,  for  fear  that  he  should 
remember  them;  would  have  gone  on  perhaps,  as 
the  stout  gentleman  did,  whistling  down  an  uneasj 
sense  that  he  had  seen  the  saddest  thing  yet  in  the 
whole  iSTovember  landscape. 

"  I  might  try  it  myself,"  said  the  peddler,  pausing 
before  the  high-art  green  house.  That  house  was  a 
novelty  then,  the  daring  freak  of  a  young  English 
architect.  It  attracted  all  manner  of  moths  like  this, 
by  the  sheer  barbaric  force  of  color.  The  people 
who  lived  there  —  Hathaway  by  name,  though  that 
is  of  small  importance  to  us  or  the  peddler  —  had 
observed  it.  Mrs.  Hathaway  complained  that  she 
could  halve  the  number  of  beggars  and  other  tramps 
by  a  coat  of  cool,  gray  paint  —  something  after  the 
manner  of  Kuskin,  who  doubtless  had  these  social 
facts  in  view,  in  the  promulgation  of  his  architectural 
theories. 

"  I  've  tried  most  all  sorts,"  said  the  peddler  pa- 
tiently, "  the  big  and  the  little,  yellow  and  white.  I 
have  n't  tried  a  green  house  yet.  There 's  a  deal  of 
yellow  ochre  in  it.  It 's  a  very  well  painted  house 
—  unfashionable  though.     I  might  as  well  venture. 


TOO  LATE.  295 

Unfashionable  folks  ain't  so  likely  to  have  fashion- 
able hearts  ;  nor  their  views  about  tape  and  needles 
ain't  so  stylish  either,"  he  added  aloud,  as  he  turned 
into  the  dusky  avenue. 

Of  sane  people,  only  the  very  solitary  talk  aloud. 
As  he  turned  from  the  avenue  to  strike  the  little 
winding  path  that  led  to  the  back  of  the  house,  the 
great  front  door  of  the  mansion  opened,  and  several 
people  came  out.  There  were  perhaps  four  ladies 
and  two  gentlemen.  A  carriage  or  two  had  now 
driven  up,  and  stood  waiting.  The  hostess  herself 
followed  her  guests  to  the  door,  saying  something 
about  the  Scotch-plaid  car,  which  was  overdue.  They 
were  all  people  of  elegant  dress  and  easy  demeanor. 
They  were  talking  earnestly  among  themselves,  and 
lingered  on  the  porch. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  a  gray-headed  gentleman  with  a 
classic  profile  and  a  bronchial  cough,  ''  if  it  would  do 
to  loan  Michael  Cavarini  ten  dollars  ?  "  The  classic 
gentleman  spoke  timidly. 

"  We  cannot  be  too  firm,  Mr.  Wax,"  suggested 
Mrs.  Hathaway,  "  although  there  must  be  exceptions 
to  all  theories.  Do  you  not  think  Michael  Cavarini 
has  had  time  to  become  self-supporting  ?  There  is 
the  wood-yard,  and  the  snow-shoveling  will  soon 
come  on." 

"  His  visitor  says  he  can't  get  into  the  wood-yard, 
you  know,"  observed  the  youngest  person  present  — 
a  very  young  gentleman,  who  had  a  conscientious 
mustache. 

"  True,"  replied  Mrs.  Hathaway,  "  and  snow-shov- 
eling has  not  been  a  fruitful  means  of  livelihood 
since   April,    poor   fellow !     Well,   we   must    think 


296  TOO  LATE. 

again.  Don't  yon  think  it  -wonld  do  to  continue  his 
case  at  the  next  council  ?  " 

"  Unless  I  get  more  light  on  the  subject  before 
Tuesday,"  said  Mr.  "Wax  earnestly,  "  I  shall  vote  for 
the  loan.  I  might  even  advocate  its  being  twenty- 
five  dollars,  and  no  interest." 

"As  to  Mrs.  O'Flaherty,"  urged  the  very  young 
gentleman,  "  it  seems  to  me  we  might  give  her  a  pair 
of  shoes.  I  really  don't  see  how  she  is  to  go  out 
scrubbing  —  I  think  we  decided  she  was  to  scrub  on 
trial,  did  n't  we  ?  —  without  shoes.  Then  she  said 
she  needed  something  flannel  —  I  'm  not  clear  what 
—  some  of  the  ladies  may  know.  She  said  she  pre- 
ferred it  red.  I  have  been  in  great  perplexity  over 
Mrs.  O'Flaherty.  My  mother  offered  me  an  old 
dress  for  her.  Do  you  think  it  would  demoralize 
her  past  redemption  ?  " 

The  rest  of  the  little  company  broke  into  merri- 
ment at  this,  and  as  the  car  came  swinging  round 
the  corner  they  parted  laughing,  the  ready,  nervous 
laugh  of  people  who  have  dwelt  upon  great  respon- 
sibilities too  long  for  their  ease  of  heart. 

"  There,"  said  one  of  the  party,  as  they  went 
down  the  avenue,  "there  is  one  of  them  this  mo- 
ment, Mrs.  Hathaway.  Your  theories  are  at  your 
threshold.  If  they  don't  keep  away  from  i/ou,  what 
hope  is  there  for  the  age  ?  Of  what  use  is  it  for  us 
to  lavish  our  souls  and  bodies  on  those  problems 
when  we  can't  keep  beggars  off  from  our  own  doors  ? 
'Why  should  we  "  — 

"  I  'm  no  beggar,"  said  a  sturdy  voice  from  the 
uncertain  shadow  that  the  dusk  was  building  by  the 
servants'  doors. 


TOO  LATE.  297 

The  little  group  stopped  and  stared  at  the  peddler 
—  all  but  the  very  young  gentleman  with  the  con- 
scientious mustache,  who  ran  to  catch  the  plaid 
horse-car,  and  lost  it ;  whereupon,  I  regret  to  say, 
he  devoutly  expressed  the  wish  that  he  had  never 
made  the  acquaintance  of  Mrs.  O'Flaherty. 

"  What  are  you  ? "  asked  Mr.  Wax,  trying  to 
speak  sternly  (he  had  a  vague  impression  that  the 
man  had  been  impertinent),  but  not  succeeding  in 
the  least. 

"  I  'm  a  peddler,"  stoutly.  "  I  've  never  taken 
charity  from  no  man  — yet." 

"  Very  good.  That  is  excellent.  I  hope  you 
never  will,"  said  Mrs.  Hathaway  hastily.  '"You 
talk  like  a  man." 

"Anything  would  be  better  than  to  pauperize 
yourself,"  suggested  a  lady  who  did  not  smile. 
"  Cold  and  hunger  are  not  the  worst  things  in  the 
world." 

"  Marm,"  said  the  peddler,  "  did  you  ever  try  it  ?  " 

The  four  refined,  benevolent,  perplexed,  and  com- 
fortable faces  glanced  hard  for  the  moment  at  the 
peddler's  sickly,  shrinking  one.  He  had  a  hunted 
look,  glaring  across  the  dark  at  them,  where  he 
stood  apart. 

"  My  horses  are  getting  restless,"  said  the  lady 
who  thought  cold  and  hunger  were  not  the  worst 
things  in  the  world,  "  and  I  must  really  go." 

But  Mr.  AVax  said  he  should  stay  and  see  a  little 
more  of  this. 

"  Go  roimd  into  the  side  porch,"  suggested  Mrs. 
Hathaway  to  the  peddler.  "  We  will  look  at  your 
things  there." 


298  TOO  LATE. 

The  peddler  did  as  he  was  bidden,  walking  slowl}'. 
He  stood  on  the  uppermost  step  but  one,  and  looked 
up  at  the  lady  and  gentleman  who  waited  in  the 
open  doorway  against  a  background  of  bright,  in- 
definite interior,  as  delicate  and  mysterious  to  the 
man  as  the  heart  of  a  rose.  His  arrested  attitude 
was  not  without  significance;  it  was  that  of  one 
who  could  not  go  up,  and  would  not  go  down, 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  "  began  Mrs,  Hathaway 
promptly. 

"  Tape  and  needles,  pins  and  ruffling,  lace  and 
hairpins  —  oh !  John  True,  marm." 

"  I  will  look  at  the  needles.  Do  you  make  a  com- 
fortable living  ?  " 

"  Sometimes,"  said  the  peddler,  evasively. 

"  Have  you  ar  permit  ?  "  asked  Mr,  Wax,  with  the 
determination  of  a  man  resolved  to  say  the  proper 
thing, 

"  Sir  ?  —  Yes.  Those  are  American  pins,  marm. 
I  've  got  no  English  to-day." 

"  Have  you  sold  much  to-day,  John  True  ?  " 

"  Not  much  to-day,  nor  yet  yesterday,"  said  John 
True,  hesitating,  "  I  got  a  breakfast  for  a  couple  of 
box-plaits  and  some  pink  tape," 

"You  look  hungry,"  said  Mr.  Wax,  with  blunt 
compassion. 

The  peddler  looked  at  the  Committee  of  the  So- 
ciety for  the  Prevention  of  Pauperism.  He  did  not 
speak.  The  stout  gentleman  had  come  out  and 
joined  them  ;  he  called  Mrs.  Hathaway  "  My  dear." 
The  pug  had  followed  also,  and  stood  airing  his 
crimson  ribbons  with  high  personal  reserve  on  the 
door-sill ;  he  had  the  aspect  of  a  sub-committee  not 


TOO  LATE.  299 

expected  to  give  advice,  but  admitted  to  unfathoma- 
ble confidence. 

"  We  will  have  some  supper,"  said  the  lady  with 
vague  kindness.  Her  thorough  training  as  a  social 
economist  prevented  her  from  saying,  "I  will  give 
you  a  supper." 

"  Thank  you,  marm,"  said  John  True,  "  if  the 
needles  will  pay  for  it." 

"  This  is  an  excellent  spirit,  Mr.  AVax,"  said  Mrs. 
Hathaway.  A  child  at  this  moment  ran  from  some- 
where and  dashed  at  the  stout  gentleman's  neck  — 
plainly  a  boy,  by  his  boisterous  loving. 

"  Ah ! "  said  the  peddler,  with  a  change  of  man- 
ner, "  he 's  a  pretty  little  fellow." 

"  Some  of  your  own,  perhaps  ?  "  asked  the  lady. 

"  Hush !  "  said  Mr.  Wax,  who  was  a  bachelor, 
"you  — you  hurt  the  man." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  John  True.  There  was 
an  awkward  silence.  The  peddler  was  the  first  to 
break  it. 

"  I  find  it  hard  "  —  he  fumbled  weakly  with  an 
imitation  Valenciennes  rufile,  drawing  it  through  and 
through  his  gaunt  fingers  —  '•'  I  don't  find  it  easy,  yet, 
to  talk  about  it  all.  I  'd  ought  to  hy  this  time.  My 
boy  had  the  scarlet  fever  while  I  was  in  the  war  — 
him  and  the  baby.  They  both  died  in  one  week. 
My  wife  wrote  me  about  it.  That  and  the  war  broke 
her  all  up.  She  kind  of  pined  away.  She  did  n't 
live  long  after  I  got  home,  herself.  That 's  how  it 
comes  I  have  n't  anybody.  She  was  a  good  wife. 
My  boy's  name  was  Tommy.  He  was  just  the  size 
of  yours,  sir  —  much  them  ways.  My  wife  wanted 
him   to    go    to    college.      I    don't   think    she    ever 


300 


TOO  LATE. 


thought  he  coiikl  die.  I  never  thought  of  it  myself 
till  the  letter  came.  I  was  n't  so  much  acquainted 
with  the  baby  ;  but  he  was  a  cunning  little  thing. 
I  suppose  he  would  have  grown  up.  My  wife  was 
very  fond  of  him.  My  wife  was  a  brave  woman." 
He  drew  himself  up.  ''  She  never  asked  me  not  to 
go  —  not  once.  I  got  wounded  once  or  twice,  and 
once  my  name  got  into  the  dead-list.  It  broke  her 
up  —  I  think  it  broke  her  up  as  much  as  the  chil- 
dren. She  said  a  woman  had  to  sit  at  home  and 
read  the  papers.  She  said  a  man  did  n't  know.  I 
got  home  unexpected  one  day.  When  I  come  in  — 
Madam,  if  you  are  suited  with  the  needles,  I  will  go." 

"  Wait  a  little,"  said  the  lady  gently  ;  "  we  would 
like  to  hear  some  more  about  you  before  you  go. 
Perhaps  you  would  like  your  supper  first  ?  " 

"  If  I  've  got  to  talk,"  answered  the  man  after  a 
silence,  "I'd  rather  be  over  with  it  before  I  eat. 
But  I  don't  want  to  be  asked  any  more  questions 
about  her  —  nor  yet  the  boy,  I  ain't  in  the  habit  of 
talking  —  about  'em.  I  ain't  very  well.  It  tires 
me.     My  breath  don't  come  right." 

"  The  man  has  asthma,"  said  Mr.  Wax  in  an  un- 
dertone. 

"  Asthma  and  shakes,"  replied  the  soldier  cheer- 
fully, "and  an  old  wound  in  the  hip,  and  some  other 
troubles  that  soldiers  have.  There's  sorts  enough 
if  that  would  answer." 

"  Helen,"  said  the  stout  gentleman,  speaking  for 
the  first  time,  "  bring  this  man  in  out  of  the  cold, 
and  order  up  his  supper  in  the  hall,  would  n't  you  ? 
It 's  warmer  for  us  all  in  there.  Mr.  True,  come  in. 
We  won't  plague  you  about  your  family." 


TOO  LATE.  301 

The  peddler  stepped  in  reluctantly  to  the  great 
crimson-carpeted  hall.  He  glanced  at  the  engrav- 
ings and  statuary,  and  removed  his  hat,  but  stood 
uncertain. 

''  I  'd  rather  eat  below,  sir,  but  I  '11  set  a  moment 
if  you  wish.  I  am  tired."  He  sank  back,  panting, 
upon  one  of  the  tall  carved  chairs. 

"  Don't  sell  much,  I  take  it,"  said  Mr.  Hathaway, 
with  the  directness  of  the  business  man,  who  had 
little  or  no  time  for  philanthropy. 

"  Not  much,  sir  —  no.  It 's  a  poor  business.  I 
would  n't  be  at  it  if  I  could  get  my  pension.  Folks 
don't  like  peddlers." 

"  But  you  must  have  had  a  trade,"  suggested  Mrs. 
Hathaway,  •'  and  why  can't  you  get  your  pension  ?  " 

"  I  was  a  house-painter,  but  that  gives  you  the 
lead-colic,  marm,  if  you  ain't  pretty  tough  to  start 
with.  I  tried  it  at  first,  but  the  shakes  come  on, 
and  I  fell  off  the  ladder  one  day.  They  would  n't 
have  me  after  that.  Marm,  I  've  tried  evenjthing  — 
you  need  n't  ask  me.  This  is  all  I  can  get.  I 
hoped  I  'd  get  my  pension.  I  applied  in  '65.  They 
say  it 's  a  clear  claim.  But  it  ain't  come  j^et.  I 
hope  I  '11  hold  out  till  it  does.  I  've  got  a  right  to 
it,  I  think." 

His  gaunt  blue  ej^es  flashed  out  once  —  he  glanced 
about  the  warm,  luxurious  place.  It  occurred  to 
him  at  that  moment  that  the  lady  might  not  have 
had  all  these  things  —  and  her  live  husband  —  and 
be  able  to  send  that  boy  to  college,  if  it  had  not  been 
for  men  like  him.  But  he  -thought  it  would  be  im- 
polite to  tell  her  so.     Pie  was  her  company  just  now, 

"  Take  all  his  things,  Helen,"  said  Mr.  Hathaway 


302  TOO  LATE. 

turning  away  abruptly,  "  and  come  to  dinner  when 
you  can."  The  man  made  him  uncomfortable.  He 
almost  wished  he  had  not  sent  a  substitute  himself. 
His  easy  gray  eyes  fell  before  the  staring  blue  ones 
of  the  peddler. 

There  was  no  end  to  the  pension  question  if  one 
got  into  it.  Helen,  thank  fortune,  had  never  been 
drawn  into  that  yet.  People  had  got  tired  of  sol- 
diers before  she  took  up  philanthropy.  They  were 
outworn,  unfashionable  long  since.  Government 
was  supposed  to  look  after  them.  There  were  a 
hundred  other  whims,  now,  for  the  occupation  of 
elegant  leisure  and  well-meaning  consciences.  Hear 
her  now,  with  her  beautiful  persistence,  going  at 
that  poor  fellow  ! 

"But  surely,  Mr.  True,  if  you  are  a  deserving 
man,  you  should  have  got  your  pension  long  before 
now.  I  do  not  understand  this  business.  I  have 
—  been  occupied  in  other  —  directions.  I  should 
wish  to  help  you  if  I  knew  how.  We  owe  a  debt  — 
w^e  are  under  obligation  to  you." 

She  stopped  suddenly,  remembering  what  obliga- 
tions her  sheltered,  happy  life  was  under  to  this 
peddler  of  tape  and  needles,  lace  and  hairpins.  She 
was  a  young  woman  yet.  She  was  of  the  genera- 
tion that  had  sprung  up  since  1865.  Her  husband 
was  older  than  herself.  She  had  never  picked  lint 
or  rolled  bandages.  She  looked  upon  Memorial  Day 
as  a  questionable  popular  festival,  calculated  to 
make  drunkards,  and  teach  the  poor  unthrifty  hab- 
its. She  had  never  searched  a  list  of  killed  and 
wounded  in  the  morning  papers.  She  was  able  to 
hear  military  music  with  composure.     She  did  not 


TOO  LATE.  303 

have  to  lock  herself  away  alone,  with  her  hands 
pressed  like  the  clods  of  the  grave  upon  her  ears, 
when  a  soldier's  funeral  passed  the  house.  She 
could  meet  a  blue  uniform  in  the  street  without  the 
heart-throb  that  tore  the  life,  or  the  blinding  mist  in 
the  eyes  that  darkened  the  face  of  the  heavens  and 
the  earth.  She  did  not  have  to  get  out  of  the  room, 
when  3'Oung  people  sang  army  songs,  and  wander 
about  till  they  came  calling  and  wondered  why  she 
was  not  there  to  play  the  waltzes.  She  was  one  of 
the  blessed  among  women  who  had  not  lived  the 
war. 

"  We  are  under  obligations  to  you,"  repeated  the 
gentle  philanthropist,  not  without  embarrassment. 

"  There 's  hundreds  of  thousands  of  us,"  said 
John  True  monotonously.  "  I  had  n't  ought  to  won- 
der so  much  if  I'm  one  of  'em.  _  It's  queer  how 
folks  always  have  a  feeling  of  surprise  at  their  own 
troubles  ;  but  I  guess,"  brightly,  "  I  '11  get  my  pen- 
sion come  January."  He  closed  his  little  valise 
and  shifted  it  cheerfully  across  his  shoulder.  His 
breath  came  with  a  painful  sound.  "  I  've  got  one 
of  those  holes  in  the  lungs,"  he  said  carelessly.  He 
thrust  his  hand  under  his  thin  shirt  up  to  the 
knuckles  in  a  pitiful  concavity,  such  as  his  disease 
sometimes  wears  out  of  the  living  bone  aad  tissue. 
"  It  makes  me  stoop,"  he  added,  "  and  it 's  bad  about 
breathing ;  but  I  kep'  my  arms  and  legs  —  and  eyes. 
I  thank  you,  marm,  for  buying  so  much  stock  of  me. 
It  will  keep  me  a  good  while  —  it  will  keep  me  sev- 
eral days." 

"  Have  you  consulted  no  physician  ?  "  asked  Mr. 
Wax,  as  John  True  moved  to  the  door.     A  great 


304  TOO  LATE. 

gust  of  the  damp  night  swept  in.  The  peddler 
coughed  and  shivered.     It  was  beginning  to  rain. 

"  Oh,  I  have  my  quinine,"  said  the  soldier  eva- 
sivel3^     ''  There  's  nothing  else  for  it." 

"  There  are  objections  to  medicating  yourself  with 
this  drug  and  —  risks,"  suggested  Mr.  Wax  ear- 
nestly. 

"  Sir,"  said  John  True,  "  did  you  ever  have  the 
shakes  under  McClellan  along  the  Potomac  ?  " 

''  Well,  well ! "  said  Mr.  Wax  deprecatingly. 

The  pug  was  sniffing  superciliously  at  the  ped- 
dler's heels,  as  one  who  was  constituted  an  advisory 
committee  for  the  emergency,  and  must  officially  re- 
mind him  that  the  open  door  would  chill  the  house. 
The  little  boy,  too,  was  calling  his  mother  in  to  din- 
ner. He  could  be  seen  through  the  open  library 
door  making  darts  at  his  father  from  behind,  and 
strangling  him  with  uproarious  kisses. 

"  Go  below  for  a  good  hot  supper,  and  I  should 
like  to  give  you  the  address  of  our  society,"  sug- 
gested Mrs.  Hathaway  thoughtfully.  "  It  may  serve 
you  in  some  emergency.  We  make  it  a  point  to 
help  honest  people  to  be  self-supporting.  We  have 
our  industrial  branches.  I  will  write  it  for  you  — 
There.  We  do  not  give  in  charity,  except  in  real 
extremities." 

"  I  have  n't  fallen  that  far  yet,"  said  the  soldier, 
lifting  his  head.  He  looked  at  the  sky,  biit  there 
were  no  stars  —  it  was  deadly  dark.  "  I  guess  I  '11 
get  my  pension  in  January,"  cheerfully.  "  I  hope 
I  '11  hold  out.  I  thank  you.  marm,  for  the  supper. 
Kext  time  I  come  around  this  way  I  '11  bring  some 
extry  crimpled  hairpins  for  you.     I  have  a  kind  in 


TOO  LATE.  305 

a  box  with  a  lady  on  it  in  a  pink  gown.  Generally 
I  ask  something  extry  for  the  box.  I  should  like  to 
have  you  have  it  to  remember  me  by.  I  wished  I 
had  something  in  my  stock  that  would  please  that 
little  fellow.  But  it 's  all  women's  gear.  Good- 
night, sir,"  to  Mr.  Wax,  who  held  the  door  open  and 
said  nothing. 

But  the  chairman  of  the  committee  of  the  Society 
for  the  Prevention  of  Pauperism,  hastily  excusing 
himself  from  his  hostess  and  colleague  in  philan- 
thropy, shut  the  door  of  the  high-art  green  house, 
and  followed  the  peddler  down  the  piazza  steps. 
The  two  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  now  heavily  fall- 
ing rain. 

"  You  have  no  umbrella,"  said  the  representative 
of  the  Extinction  of  Pauperism  under  his  breath. 

"  Well,  sir,  no.  I  parted  with  mine  one  day  for  a 
—  well,  for  a  supper.  I  had  n't  had  anything  to  eat, 
only  a  few  blackberries  that  was  pretty  well  dried 
with  the  drought,  since  the  day  before  of  a  breakfast 
time.  I  have  n't  any  umbrella,  but  I  '11  get  under 
shelter  in  a  place  I  know  before  long,  now  ;  thank 
you,  sir." 

"You  must  take  mine,"  said  Mr.  Wax  guiltily. 
"  I  insist  upon  it.  And  I  wish  —  here  —  I  —  I  beg 
your  pardon,"  cried  Mr.  Wax,  looking  all  around 
him  with  a  scared  air,  "  but  I  never  enlisted  myself. 
I  had  an  invalid  sister,  and  I  —  at  any  rate,  I  did  n't. 
I  do  not  enjoy  it  to  see  a  soldier  going  about  the 
State  of  Massachusetts  in  the  condition  you  are  in. 
I  really  do  not  enjoy  it ! "  repeated  Mr.  Wax,  wiping 
his  forehead ;  "  and  if  you  won't  look  upon  it  as  a 
charity  —  for  we  seldom  give  in  charity,  nor  even  as 


306  TOO  LATE. 

a  loan,  for  our  loans,  you  know,  are  subject  to  the 
advisory  committee  —  and,  in  fact,  if  you  would  be 
so  good,  Mr.  True,  as  not  to  look  upon  it  —  offi- 
cially, anyhow  —  but  just  to  give  one  human  being 
the  privilege  of  putting  some  comforts,  such  as  um- 
brellas and  other  necessaries  of  life,  into  another  hu- 
man being's  way,"  finished  Mr.  Wax  wildly,  "  I 
should  be  infinitely  grateful  to  you.  As  a  civilian," 
added  Mr.  Wax,  "  who  is  under  obligations  to  a  sol- 
dier, I  must  say  that  I  will  not  have  you  look  upon 
this  as  a  charity.  It  woiUd  be  contrary  to  your  excel- 
lent instincts ;  it  would  be  contrar}^  to  all  our  princi- 
ples ;  it  would  be  —  Good-night,  sir,'"  cried  j\Ir.  Wax 
severely,  and,  glancing  about  him  with  the  air  of  one 
detected  in  a  felony,  the  chairman  of  the  committee 
of  the  Society  for  the  Prevention  of  Pauperism 
tucked  a  fat  bill  into  the  peddler's  thin  hand,  and 
fled  for  his  life. 

III. 

The  nation  had  come  up  like  a  convalescent  from 
a  fever,  not  without  a  certain  incredulity  of  the  dis- 
ease which  it  had  survived.  The  public  credit  was 
sturdy.  The  reduction  of  the  war  debt  had  become 
one  of  the  financial  wonders  of  the  world.  The  busi- 
ness outlook  was  clear.  So  long  as  England  ate  our 
beef,  and  our  superfluous  grain  went  as  ballast  to  the 
merchantmen,  what  would  we  ?  Since  the  great 
Western  crops  were  assured,  the  chinch-bug  to  be 
disposed  of  by  kerosene  and  milk  (one  could  hardly 
respect  even  a  chinch-bug  who  refused  to  surrender 
life  upon  that  diet),  the  forest  fires  out,  the  floods 


TOO  LATE.  307 

down,  and  the  Hutchison  and  Saint  Gray  Eailroad 
managed  by  Boston  capital,  who  could  complain  ? 
If  the  banking  system  is  safe,  and  the  kindergarten 
semi-annual  has  subscribers  ;  if  pencil-lined  summer 
silk  is  fifty  cents  a  yard,  the  Prohibitory  law  de- 
feated, the  three-and-a-half  per  cents  afloat,  and  we 
have  a  country  week  for  sick  babies,  "  what  can  we 
want  besides  ?  "  A  chorus  of  fifty  million  voices 
adopts  this  national  anthem  from  the  hymn-book, 
and  chants  piously. 

It  is  the  day  when  we  look  in  the  morning  papers 
for  the  score  of  the  last  national  base-ball  match. 
It  is  the  day  when  we  thrill  over  the  accident  to  the 
stroke  of  the  inter-collegiate  regatta.  It  is  the  day 
when  we  play  lawn  tennis  with  the  ladies.  It  is  the 
time  when  all  the  ardor  of  our  soul  is  flung  into  the 
cut  of  our  landau  ;  when  we  discuss  the  bang  on  the 
tails  of  our  horses  ;  when  we  camp  out  in  the  Yel- 
lowstone on  an  August  vacation,  and  our  wives  pray 
for  us  as  for  men  in  mortal  peril.  It  is  the  time 
when  we  give  thirty  thousand  dollars  for  a  French 
painting  ;  when  we  agonize  over  the  "  punkin  "-col- 
ored frieze  claimed  as  old  gold  upon  our  summer 
villas  ;  when  we  amuse  ourselves  chasing  what  we 
call  a  fox,  at  the  watering-place  affecting  imported 
fashions  and  humanities  ;  when  the  crack  in  the  fai- 
ence vase  stirs  our  natures  to  their  depths.  It  is 
the  day  when  gamboge  yellow  china  monsters,  cost- 
ing a  hundred  dollars  a  pair,  sit  over  against  our 
thresholds  in  the  front  hall.  It  is  the  day  Avhen  we 
give  five  hundred  for  a  lap-dog,  and  three  dollars  a 
visit  for  the  calls  of  the  dog-doctor.  It  is  the  day 
when  we  have  adapted  social  science  to  the  impulses 


308  TOO  LATE. 

of  the  heart.  It  is  the  day  when  we  know  to  a  cop- 
per how  much  it  is  right  to  give  our  starving  sister. 
It  is  the  day  when  we  are  generous  to  a  fault  with 
our  thoughts,  with  our  time,  with  our  nerve,  with 
our  privacy,  Avith  all  the  sweet  and  sacred  resources 
which  have  a  value  to  human  need,  beside  Avhich, 
indeed,  mere  money  may  be  a  slight  and  chilly  con- 
tribution. It  is  the  day  when  we  find  ourselves 
proud  of  the  extent  to  which  we  have  become  our 
brother's  keeper.  It  is  the  day  of  harbor  excur- 
sions, and  women's  prisons  ;  of  the  society  for  edu- 
cating you  at  home,  and  the  great  firm  that  takes 
you  from  behind  its  counter  to  send  you  abroad. 
It  is  the  day  of  the  flower  charity  and  rides  for  in- 
valids. It  is  the  day  when  we  stubbornly  investi- 
gate insane  hospitals,  and  when  women  on  the  State 
Boards  of  Charity  discover  that  female  convicts  have 
not  been  supplied  with  nightgowns.  It  is  the  day 
when  the  merciful  executioner  of  our  superannuated 
dogs  or  horses  gives  a  new  trade  to  society  and  a 
new  humanity  to  life.  It  is  the  day  when  the  law 
takes  a  child  away  from  a  drunken  parent,  and  a 
man  may  be  arrested  if  he  kicks  a  donkey.  It  is  the 
day  when  our  navy  consists  of  fourteen  unarmored 
cruisers  and  twelve  old-fashioned  monitors.  It  is 
the  day  when  the  applications  for  pensions  are  com- 
ing in  at  the  rate  of  three  thousand  a  mouth.  It  is 
the  day  when  two  hundred  thousand  pension  claims 
remain  unsettled.  It  is  the  day  when  over  one  hun- 
dred Massachusetts  soldiers  are  found  in  almshouses. 
It  is  twenty  years  after  the  war. 

On  a  hot,  bright  day  in  ]\Iay,  1882,  the  physician 


TOO  LATE.  309 

in  charge  of  the  State  Almshouse  at  Tewksbiiry  re- 
ceived a  summons  to  attend  a  sick  pauper  as  promptly 
as  possible.  It  was  not  the  first  call ;  the  man  had 
troubled  him  before,  but  of  late  had  kept  more  quiet. 
At  one  time  there  had  been  talk  of  sending  him  to 
the  insane  wing,  but  for  this  reason  and  that,  it  had 
never  been  done.  The  doctor  went  to  the  pauper's 
bedside  with  a  dubious  expression,  as  one  who  dis- 
trusts his  own  leniency. 

The  patient  was  the  last  in  the  long  row  in  the 
men's  ward.  His  cot  came  up  blankly  against  the 
wall.     Some  of  the  men  had  a  window. 

"  I  get  tired  of  the  wall,"  said  the  patient  abruptly, 
as  the  physician  entered. 

"  It 's  always  something,  you  know,  True,"  an- 
swered the  doctor  carelessly.  "Well,  how  is  it  to- 
day ?     Choking  again  ?  " 

"  It 's  always  choking.  Doctor,"  patiently,  "  but  it 's 
the  cannon  in  my  head  I  mind  the  most  to-day. 
There  's  flashing  and  firing  enough  to  blow  Lee  into 
eternity.  Off  and  on  I  feel  shells  —  then  they  bust 
and  scatter  down  my  backbone.  Seems  I  was  blown 
up  nigh  all  night.  Jiggs  says  I  kep'  him  awake.  I 
think  very  like.  I  thought  he  was  Beauregard,  till 
it  come  sun-up.  But  I  hadn't  nothin'  to  fling  at 
him,  only  the  pillow,  and  I  ain't  strong  enough  to 
fling  the  pillow.  You  need  n't  find  fault ;  I  laid 
still.  Doctor.  It  was  hard  not  to  go  at  'em,  but  I 
kep'  still.  I  'm  better  to-day,  Doctor  —  if  you  could 
muzzle  them  cannon." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  '11  muzzle  the  cannon,"  said  the  physi- 
cian lightly.  He  poured  a  teaspoonful  from  a  vial 
which  was  labeled  Bromide  Potass. 


310  TOO  LATE. 

''  You  canH  muzzle  'em  ! "  cried  the  patient  con- 
temptuously, "  and  you  know  you  can't.  I  ain't  a 
luny  —  yet,  nor  I  ain't  a  born  fool.  That  sort  of 
talk  don't  help  a  man  in  his  senses.  AYe  used  to 
have  a  doctor  to  home  I  'd  like  to  see.  My  wiie  "was 
very  fond  of  that  doctor.  He  understood  my  consti- 
tution, she  said.  He  ^d  know  whether  I  was  dying 
or  not.  I  never  thought  I  'd  come  to  a  poor-house 
doctor." 

"  Dying  fiddlesticks  ! "  retorted  the  doctor  good- 
humoredly  ;  but  he  took  in  the  man,  soul  and  body, 
at  one  long  glance,  before  he  left  him.  The  eye  of 
an  anxious  physician  is  like  a  sharpshooter. 

"Take  the  medicine,  and  let  the  cannon  roar,  if 
they  will.  True.  They  won't  hurt  anybody.  I  '11  be 
back  if  you  don't  feel  easier." 

"  I  fought  in  fifteen  battles,  Doctor  I  "  the  patient 
cried  after  him  —  liis  voice  reechoed  through  the 
long,  gaunt  room  —  "I  fought  in  fifteen  battles.  I 
was  at  Fair  Oaks,  and  Malvern  Hills,  and  Bull  Run, 
and  Antietam,  and  —  oh,  I  've  forgotten  the  rest.  I 
was  wounded  twice.  Once  I  got  on  the  dead-list, 
and  my  wife  read  it  in  the  papers.  I  was  —  look 
here,  I  never  told  you  before.  I  don't  often  speak 
of  it.  I  fought  the  Avar  out ;  I  did  n't  talk  about  it 
while  I  was  peddlin' ;  I  was  afraid  folks  would  say 
I  was  tradin'  on  my  miseries.  You  know  you 
could  n't  be  the  same  man  after  all  them  years  if  yoM 
was  to  try.  I  did  the  best  I  could  at  peddlin'.  I 
never  thought  I  'd  come  to  Tewksbury  —  I  never 
thought  of  it !  " 

His  voice  rose  to  a  kind  of  wail,  which  was  the 
worst  thing  in  the  world  for  the  paupers.     Some  one 


TOO  LATE.  311 

ordered  him  sharply  to  keep  still.  The  doctor  went 
down  to  discuss  the  patient  with  the  superintendent ; 
it  was  not  a  case  exactly  for  the  State  visitors  who 
were  coming  any  day  now ;  yet  it  seemed  hard  to 
turn  him  into  the  asylum. 

"  He 's  only  quinine-crazy  ;  it  is  n't  like  the  genu- 
ine thing,  you  know.  I  don't  incline  to  disturb 
him ;  he  's  a  pretty  sick  man.  He  takes  the  whole 
business  hard.  He  was  n't  cut  out  for  a  pauper  — 
the  more  's  the  pity." 

"Look  here,  True,"  said  Jiggs,  after  the  doctor 
had  gone,  "  I  'm  sorry  for  ye,  upon  my  word.  I  'd 
give  ye  somethin'  to  fling  at  me  if  I  had  it.  I  'm 
nothin'  but  a  dummed  fool  that  drank  himself  into 
this,  but  by  the  Lord  Harry,  if  I  'd  fit  for  my  coun- 
try —  too  drunk ;  they  would  n't  have  me  —  I  should 
call  this  a  dummed  shame.  Be  as  crazy  as  you  like, 
for  all  me  —  I  won't  complain  of  ye." 

"  Thank  you,  Jiggs,"  said  the  sick  man  patiently. 
He  fell  silent  after  this  ;  so  silent  that  they  thought 
him  much  improved.  He  turned  over  on  his  little 
cot  with  his  face  to  the  great  white  wall,  and 
dropped  into  a  stupor,  half  doze,  half  day-dream, 
through  which  his  thoughts  stirred  with  a  sluggish 
fear,  like  lost  things  that  dared  not  move  lest  they 
should  get  farther  still  astray.  He  had  always  had 
these  sullen  times  since  he  had  been  at  Tewksbary. 
He  had  been  there  over  two  years.  They  had  found 
him  a  tractable  pauper ;  helpless  with  malaria  and 
asthma,  and  his  other  ails  ;  deranged  at  times  with 
the  over-use  of  quinine  —  a  poisoned  wreck.  His 
fine  blue  eyes  were  hollow,  and  his  lips  livid.  He 
was  no  longer  a  pleasant-looking  fellow.     One  won- 


312  TOO  LATE. 

dered  what  this  defender  of  his  country  might  be 
thinking  of,  lying  there  with  his  face  to  the  poor- 
house  walh  His  lost  life,?  His  last  battle  ?  More 
probably  his  next  dose.  He  muttered  a  good  deal 
and  stared  about.  He  had  quite  outlived  his  own 
romance  (a  pitiable  fate  for  the  most  attractive  of 
us),  and  no  longer  appealed  to  any  but  the  most 
keenly  imaginative  sensibilities. 

Some  one  spoke  to  him  softly,  as  he  lay  there  stu- 
pidly enough,  that  hot  June  day.  At  first  he  thought 
it  was  the  robin  that  sang  afternoons  on  the  tree 
that  grew  across  the  street  on  the  other  side  of  the 
poor-house  ;  but  after  a  moment's  attention  he  per- 
ceived that  it  was  the  voice  of  a  woman.  When  he 
turned,  he  saw  that  several  people  were  by  his  bed- 
side, some  gentlemen  and  this  lady.  He  made  a 
sign  to  intimate  that  he  had  seen  her  before,  and 
that  he  welcomed  her. 

"  I  have  often  thought  of  you,"  said  Mrs.  Hatha- 
way, "  but  I  had  -never  expected  to  find  you  here. 
My  duties  bring  me  here  to  observe  the  condition  of 
the  inmates.     I  am  sorry  to  find  you  oue  of  them." 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  that  man,"  said  John  True 
faintly.  He  pointed  to  Mr.  Wax,  who  shrank  a  little 
in  the  background.  The  gentleman  advanced,  and 
leaned  over  the  cot. 

"  I  won't  tell  of  you,"  whispered  the  pauper. 

"  Don't,"  sighed  Mr.  Wax. 

"  But  it  did  a  heap  for  me,  sir.  I  got  boots  and 
flannels  come  winter.  It  kejj'  me  in  comforts,  till 
you  seemed  to  me,  as  I  thought  on  you,  most  like 
own  folks,  sir.     But  I  never  told  on  you." 

"  I  'm  much  obliged  to  you,"  said  Mr.  Wax,  cough- 


TOO  LATE.  313 

ing  heavily.  His  broneliial  condition  explained  a 
great  deal  of  surplus  emotion  that  a  philanthropist 
must  find  inconvenient. 

'•  I  am  very  sorry  to  find  you  here,"  repeated  Mrs. 
Hathaway  gently.  "  We  will  hope  soon  to  —  to 
have  you  self-supporting  and  happy."  She  looked 
vaguely  about ;  then  suddenly  her  fine  eyes  filled. 
The  peddler  was  greatly  changed.  She  was  not  used 
to  sick  people,  but  she  began  to  see  that  he  looked 
very  ill. 

"  He  's  crazy  as  a  coot,"  volunteered  the  amiable 
Jiggs  from  the  next  cot ;  "  but  I  let  him  fling  pil- 
lows at  me,"  complacently.  "  I  'm  nothin'  but  a 
dummed  drunkard  myself." 

"  You  're  an  excellent  fellow,"  said  Mr.  Wax  help- 
lessly. 

"  Tell  us,"  urged  Mrs.  Hathaway,  "  how  you  came 
here,  Mr.  True,  can't  you  ?  I  am  so  very  sorry.  I 
have  a  better  place  for  you,  I  think.  I  see  you  are 
not  able  to  work  at  present.  We  are  establishing  a 
home  "  — 

"  It  takes  a  pensionable  status  to  get  into  hospi- 
tals," interrupted  John  True.  "  They  would  n't  have 
me  —  I  've  never  got  my  pension  yet.  Something 
was  always  the  matter.  I  thought  I  'd  get  it  come 
January  when  I  was  to  your  house,  but  it  was  always 
something.  Last  of  all,  the  surgeon  he  up  and  died. 
I  had  to  have  his  testimony  as  to  what  ailed  me  at 
the  time  of  my  discharge.  We  got  most  all  the  other 
witnesses  —  one  of  'em  he  'd  cleared  out  to  Indiany 
after  a  divorce,  and  it  took  all  that  time  to  captur' 
him  —  then  this  feller  had  to  go  and  die.  They  said 
my    claim   warn't    good    for    nothin'    without   the 


314  TOO  LATE. 

surgeon's  testimony.  That  clean  discouraged  me," 
added  the  soldier.  ''  I  "d  been  in  fifteen  battles ! 
I  'd  been  wounded  twice  !  I  fought  in  Fair  Oaks, 
and  Malvern  Hills,  and  Bull  Run,  and  Antietam,  and 
—  oh,  seems  to  me  if  there  was  n't  so  many  folks 
round  I  could  remember  the  rest."  He  looked  wildly 
about,  panting. 

''  I  hoped  that  sedative  would  work  better,"  said 
the  doctor,  who  had  joined  the  group. 

"But  this  is  not  to  be  a  national  hospital,"  per- 
sisted Mrs.  Hathaway.  *'  It  is  to  be  a  State  affair, 
where  you  will  not  have  to  wait  for  anything.  There 
is  to  be  as  little  red  tape  as  possible.  I  have  become 
very  much  interested  in  it  —  I  am  one  of  the  com- 
mittee. I  confess  I  think  it  is  rather  late,  but  better 
late  than  never.   We  must  get  you  into  it,  IVIr.  True." 

"  I  don't  know  nothing  about  it,"  said  the  pauper 
apathetically. 

"  We  will  speak  to  the  superintendent  at  once," 
urged  the  lady  nervously.  "  We  will  have  you  made 
comfortable  there  for  the  rest  of  your  days." 

"  Thank  you,  marm  ;  but  it 's  too  late  for  that." 

The  soldier  turned  his  face  to  the  wall.  He  was 
tired  of  all  these  fine  people.  He  had  no  faith  in 
their  homes  and  hospitals.  It  would  be  like  the 
pension. 

"  There  '11  be  sure  to  be  something  the  matter. 
You  '11  see,  they  won't  let  me  in.  They  '11  find  rea- 
sons agin  it.  They  won't  want  me.  I  don't  know 
why.  It  ain't  because  I  did  n't  fight.  It  ain't  because 
I  was  n't  wounded.  It  ain't  because  I  was  n't  honor- 
ably discharged.  It  ain't  because  I  ain't  sick.  .  .  . 
Lord  !    I  never  thought  I  'd  come  to  the  poor-house  ! 


TOO  LATE.  315 

I  never  thought  of  it !  I  've  been  here  two  years 
and  three  months,  and  I  ain't  dead  yet.  .  .  .  Lord, 
how  I  took  on  at  first !     I  've  got  nsed  to  it  now." 

"  What  made  you  come  at  the  last  ?  "  some  one 
asked  him  gently. 

''  They  took  me,  sir.  They  said  I  was  starving. 
The  selectmen  found  me  in  a  cornfield  of  a  Novem- 
ber night.  I  was  n't  very  well.  It  was  in  a  town 
where  I  had  n't  sold  much  of  anything." 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  Mrs.  Hathaway,  restraining  her- 
self with  much  emotion,  "  we  will  take  you  out  of  the 
poor-house.     We  will  come  back  for  you  next  week." 

"Marm,"  said  the  pauper,  "I  ain't  an  object  of 
interest  for  a  lady  now.  I  would  n't  trouble  yourself 
if  I  was  you." 

He  turned  his  face  to  the  wall  again,  and  said  no 
more  to  them.  Only,  as  the  gentlemen  passed  out 
of  the  ward,  he  beckoned  once,  and  ]Mr.  Wax  returned 
and  asked  his  pleasure. 

"Will  this  be  a  real  thing,  this  place  you  tell 
of  ?  "  asked  the  pauper.  "'  No  play -work,  an  orderly, 
and  a  flag,  and  other  soldiers  ?  I  'd  like  to  die  under 
a  roof  where  the  flag  belonged,  if  I  could  as  well  as 
not.  It  would  be  something  not  to  die  in  the  poor- 
house,  would  n't  it,  sir  ?  " 

They  had  moved  him,  although  he  was  very  weak. 
It  was  thought  best,  at  the  last  moment,  to  make  the 
experiment,  and  they  bore  him  with  what  tenderness 
they  might,  on  the  little  journey  from  Tewksbury  to 
Chelsea,  and  so  through  the  welcome  dashes  of  the 
sea-winds  up  the  Powder-Horn  Hill,  and  into  the 
home  which   Massachusetts    had    provided   for  her 


31G  TOO  LATE. 

scattered  heroes.  It  was  an  exceedingly  hot  day,  and 
as  he  got  out  of  the  carriage,  which  he  tried  to  do 
without  assistance,  he  turned  his  face  to  the  salt 
breeze  and  looked  pathetically  about. 

"  It 's  cooler  here  than  it  was  in  Tewksbury,"  he 
said.  ''  I  've  nothing  against  'em  at  Tewksbury  ;  but 
it  was  a  hot  place  for  sick  folks." 

Then,  glancing  up  the  height  of  the  building,  his 
gaunt,  dull  face  flashed  fire. 

"Oh,  there's  the  Flag!  See!  How  she  flies! 
Ain't  she  a  living  beauty  !  Oh,  I  'm  glad  to  get 
under  the  Flag  !  " 

He  made  the  military  salute  gravely,  then  bared 
his  head,  his  face  upturned  to  the  solemn  symbol  for 
which  he  had  sacrificed  youth,  health,  home,  hope, 
and  life :  not  much,  to  be  sure,  but  this  obscure  man 
gave  what  he  had.  We  may  remember  it,  now  and 
then,  although  we  are  truly  busied  about  many  other 
things.  Thirty  years  are  a  generation.  Half  of  the 
men  who  sent  him  forth  are  in  their  graves.  We 
who  remain  have  more  modern  subjects  of  thought 
and  care  than  these  poor  wrecks,  who  have  sifted 
through  the  strain  of  broken  business  habits,  incura- 
ble disease,  growing  age,  and  increasing  friendless- 
ness.  You  who  have  sprung  up  since  the  rank  and 
file  were  our  hope  and  our  glory,  to  whose  happy 
young  ears  a  drum-tap  has  no  more  solemn  meaning 
than  a  serenade,  and  to  whose  fancy  a  soldier  pre- 
sents the  form  of  the  sleek  Cadet  disporting  himself 
at  Magnolia,  or  the  useful  messenger  who  carries 
your  invitations  —  it  is  our  fault  if  we  have  suffered 
3'ou  to  forget  that  sacred  debt  whose  bonds  bear  in- 
terest unto  the  third  and  fourth  generation  of  them 


TOO  LATE.  317 

that  owe  it,  and  shall  reflect  the  military  quality  of 
loyalty  upon  thousands  of  them  that  honor  it  and 
reverence  its  obligations. 

These  were  our  trust ;  liow  fare  they  at  our  hands  ? 
Our  saviors  then ;   are  they  our  heroes  now  ? 

John  True  went  into  the  Soldiers'  Home  quietly ; 
they  hel^jed  him  on  either  side,  for  the  outbreak 
of  life  with  which  he  had  greeted  the  flag  passed 
quickly,  and  he  moved  and  breathed  with  difficulty. 

Comrades  saluted  him  as  he  crossed  the  threshold, 
and  the  '•'  orderly,"  about  whom  he  had  asked,  was 
there.  They  took  him  to  the  place  assigned  him.  Its 
coolness,  size,  and  comfort  seemed  to  confuse  him. 

/'These  are  your  quarters,"  said  the  orderly. 

"Eh?    Not  — here?" 

"  Yes,  these  are  your  quarters." 

"  But  this  must  be  officers'  quarters.  I  was  n't  an 
officer." 

"  No  ;  these  are  yoicr  quarters." 

The  pauper  soldier  began  to  tremble,  looked  ap- 
pealingly  about  —  made  as  if  he  Avould  entreat  to  be 
left  alone  ;  then :  — 

"  My  God  !  My  God  /  "  he  cried  aloud,  and  sank 
down,  sobbing  mightily  before  them  all. 

He  lingered  for  a  little  while,  not  in  great  pain,  and 
with  so  much  comfort  that  they  had  at  first  hopes  of 
his  regaining  life.  He  knew  better  than  this  him- 
self, but  he  did  not  try  to  undeceive  them.  He  lay 
quietly,  sleeping  a  good  deal,  and  smiling  upon  all 
who  spoke  to  him.     He  often  said  :  — 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  comfortable,  so  comfortable  !  " 


318  TOO  LATE. 

Sometimes  he  told  the  boys  that  he  never  thought 
he  should  have  come  to  the  poor-house ;  and  once  he 
said  again  that  it  was  a  good  deal  to  die  with  the 
flag  over  your  head. 

One  day  he  called  the  orderly  and  said  :  — 
"  I  forgot  to  tell  those  gentlemen  why  my  daugh- 
ter could  n't  support  me.  I  had  a  daughter,  but  she 
married  at  sixteen  —  that 's  why.  Sissy  married  a 
drunkard.  He  was  a  Dogberry  fellow  —  his  father 
drank  before  him.  They're  out  West  somewhere, 
but  I  have  n't  heard  from  her  for  a  long  spell.  Sissy 
couldn't  do  the  first  thing  forme.  It  would  have 
been  better  for  Sissy  if  she  had  had  the  scarlet  fever 
when  the  boys  did  —  but  she  lived  instead." 
At  another  time  he  said,  with  some  anxiety :  — 
"  I  forgot  to  ask  that  lady  whether  she  ever  got  the 
extry  box  of  hairpins  I  owed  her  for  my  supper.  I 
sent  it  by  another  peddler  I  knew.  It  had  a  picture 
on  the  cover  —  it  Avas  a  pretty  box.  I  wish  I  'd 
asked  her." 

It  was  noticeable  that,  as  he  failed,  the  more  un- 
pleasant aspects  of  his  appearance  gave  place  to  a  cer- 
tain touching  refinement,  which  might  have  been  na- 
tive to  the  man.  As  death  advanced,  the  most  pain- 
ful marks  of  disease  retreated.  Fire  returned  to  his 
fine  blue  eye.  That  weak  dropping  of  the  under  lip 
fell  into  firmer  lines.  The  muscles  of  his  face  began 
to  move  with  a  kind  of  precision,  like  men  on  duty 
under  clear  orders.  The  vacillation  of  pauperism 
departed  from  the  soldier's  face  in  those  last  days. 
He  spoke  less  and  less  ;  Avhen  he  did,  it  was  usually 
to  say  something  about  Mary,  and  some  one  asked 
him  one  day  if    Mary  was  his  wife.      He   nodded 


TOO  LATE.  319 

silently.  He  did  not  feel  that  he  cared  to  talk 
about  her  to  these  strange  men. 

He  thought  of  her  —  it  seemed  to  him  that  he 
thought  of  her  all  the  time.  It  was  as  if  he  had  for- 
gotten everything  while  he  was  in  the  poor-house. 
Now,  it  was  like  getting  home  again,  after  these 
twenty  years. 

Whether  adream  or  awake  — who  should  say  that 
has  not  himself  come  to  that  haze  which  separates 
the  facts  of  this  which  we  call  life  from  the  mys- 
teries of  that  which  we  name  death  ?  —  he  experi- 
enced much  that  had  gone  from  his  memory,  leaving 
a  blankness  like  that  which  rests  in  one's  mind  iipon 
the  lives  of  other  men. 

He  remembered  the  row  of  holes  perforated  in  the 
brown  straw  hat  that  he  hung  up  in  the  entry  the 
day  he  had  enlisted.  There  was  a  little  tin  horse 
under  foot,  and  he  hit  it,  so  it  trundled  away  with  a 
tinkling  sound.  There  was  a  rag  mat  in  the  entry ; 
it  had  blue  roses,  and  one  of  the  petals  was  worn,  and 
pieced  out  with  black  alpaca.  As  he  looked  down  at 
it,  fumbling  and  delaying,  dreading  to  tell  her  as  he 
had  never  once  since  dreaded  death  when  under  fire, 
the  child  from  within  piped  out  shrilly :  — 

"  My  omeizzen  Ye-ev-zn^,  my 
Resizzenere ; 
Yen  wy  shoulda  vaa.-a.-ma 
If  t-wyalsypere  ?  " 

And  Mary  was  hurt  because  he  went  to  wash  him- 
self without  first  kissing  her.  But  he  was  so  covered 
with  red  paint !  He  had  been  painting  a  red  house 
—  Seth  Grimace's  house. 


320  TOO  LATE. 

They  had  doughnuts  and  hash  for  siipper,  and 
Sissy  was  not  there.  Sissy  was  at  the  picnic :  she 
had  the  umbrella,  lest  it  should  rain,  and  was  coming 
home  with  Jenny  Severby.  Sissy  looked  like  her 
great-aunt  who  married  a  dissipated  fellow.  Poor 
Sissy  !  But  Tommy  crushed  the  cinnamon  rose  in 
his  father's  pocket,  leaning  so  close  against  him  at 
supper-table.  .  .  .  How  she  looks  with  the  rose  in 
her  bosom  —  pretty  !  The  baby  pulled  at  it,  and 
she  put  it  in  her  hair.  That  was  more  becoming. 
Mary  was  always  neat. 

See  !  we  go  out  into  the  garden  after  tea  to  walk. 
He  throws  away  the  pipe,  and  the  rooster  objects  to 
tobacco;  that  pleases  Tommy,  strangling  him  with 
kisses  from  behind.  Tommy  has  on  a  green-checked 
gingham  apron.  Let  us  count  the  checks  to  steady  a 
man's  mind  against  this  thing  he  has  to  do,  that  is 
so  much  worse  than  the  deadliest  battle  of  them  all, 
though  he  fought  the  war  out,  and  was  taken  out  of 
TeAvksbury  poor-house  before  he  died.  There  are 
the  currant-bushes;  the  cherry-tree  is  in  blossom, 
and  the  flowers  fall  like  snow.  There  are  the  cab- 
bages, in  the  southwest  corner,  doing  well.  The  sun 
is  setting.  Where  shall  we  put  Sissy's  teeter-board  ? 
Shall  Tommy  have  a  rabbit  ?  Yes,  Mary,  have  your 
geraniums,  my  girl,  anywhere  you  like.  She  hangs 
upon  his  arm  now,  leaning  toward  him ;  puts  up  her 
hand.  Oh,  how  soft  it  is  !  There  were  only  men 
—  men  out  there.  In  all  these  years,  Mary,  I  have 
never  touched  another  woman  —  not  even  her  hands. 
You  never  need  be  jealous  in  your  grave,  my  girl. 
...  I  '11  tell  you  when  we  get  into  the  house.  Kot 
yet !   not  just  yet !     Give  me  a  few  moments'  time  ! 


TOO  LATE.  321 

I  can't  tell  you  this  minute  !  .  .  .  "  I  'm  choking !  — 
doctor  !  —  sir,  excuse  me.  I  have  made  you  trouble  ! 
I  was  thinking  about  another  matter."  .  .  . 

The  baby  cried  and  she  went  in.  I  think  I  '11  put 
it  off.  I  will  not  tell  her  to-night.  I  had  rather  get 
a  little  stronger  before  I  tell  my  wife  I  have  en- 
listed. .  .  .  That  was  just  like  her  !  To  spare  me  — 
everything.  She  always  did.  But  I  would  have  told 
her  if  she'd  waited  a  little  longer.  When  I  felt 
better  I  'd  have  told  her.  Oh,  my  girl,  come  here ! 
Come  here ! 

I  have  n't  held  no  other  woman  in  my  arms,  Mary, 
—  and  it's  fourteen  years  since  she  died.  Come 
here,  and  let  us  talk  it  over,  if  we  can.  ...  I  say, 
boys,  do  you  hear  that  ?  No  ?  Oh,  no.  I  see  —  it 
is  some  music  that  I  heard.  My  little  boy  used  to 
sing.     This  is  the  hymn.     Why,  I  hear  it ;  — 

"  My  home  is  in  Heaven." 

Don't  hear  it,  boys,  none  of  you  ? 

"  My  home  is  in  Heaven, 
My  rest  is  not  here." 

I  can  hear  it  very  plain.  We  didn't  get  much 
home  here,  did  we,  boys  ?  Broke  up  somehow  — 
upset,  seems  to  me  —  come  to  an  end  before  its  time. 
I  had  a  pleasant  home  before  the  war. 

"  Home  is  in  Heaven  !  " 

Well,  maybe  —  I  would  n't  undertake  to  ssij ;  but 
it's  asking  a  good  deal  of  folks  ...  to  wait  .  .  . 
so  long. 


322  TOO  LATE. 

Eeady  !  Aim  !  Fire  !  .  .  .  Fair  Oaks  !  —  Malvern 
Hill !  —  Bull  Exm  !  —  Antietam  !  Give  it  to  'em, 
boys  !  give  it  to  'em  !  Look  at  the  Flag  and  think  of 
yoiir  folks  at  home  !  Shall  we  give  our  lives  for 
nothing  ?  Aim  low,  boys !  Government  will  look 
after  ye,  don't  ye  fear  !  Old  Massachusetts  won't 
allow  us  to  suffer  !  Each  mortal  man  of  us  has  got 
the  promise  of  the  United  States  of  America  to  care 
for  him  and  his'n  if  he  drops !  Let  'em  have  it, 
boys  !  Hurrah  for  the  old  Flag  !  Fair  Oaks  !  —  Mal- 
vern Hill  !  —  Bull  Run  !  —  Antietam  ! 

They  went  swiftly  to  his  bedside,  and  held  him  to 
the  strong,  salt  air.  They  spoke  affectionately. 
There  was  little  to  say.  Some  one  prayed  aloud,  but 
it  was  doubtful  if  he  heard.  He  stretched  his  arms 
out  with  a  gesture  of  infinite  tenderness,  and  to  the 
comrade  nearest  who  supported  him  he  said  :  — 

u  I  ?ye  got  my  discharge,  old  fellow,  and  now  I  'm 
going  home  to  see  my  wife.  I  almost  dares  n't,  for 
she  is  n't  very  strong.  Do  you  think  it  will  be  too 
much  for  her  —  so  sudden  —  when  she  —  sees  me 
coming  in  ?  " 


THE  EEVEKEND  MALACHI  MATTHEW. 

OxE  chilly  November  day,  toward  five  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon,  a  crowd  of  people  poured  from  the 
First  Church  of  Pepperville.  The  deacons  were  all 
out ;  the  Sewing  Society  was  there  in  force ;  the 
Dorcas  Relief  was  thoroughly  represented ;  the  Town 
Missionaries  were  every  one  of  them  present;  the 
Sunday-school  teachers  were  on  the  ground  almost 
en  masse  ;  the  officers  of  the  Ancient  and  Honorable 
Experiment  for  the  Suppression  of  .Intemperance 
were,  to  a  man  and  a  woman,  on  the  spot ;  scarcely  a 
church  member  in  good  and  regular  standing  could 
be  found  who  had  absented  himself  from  this  occa- 
sion. In  fact,  sundry  persons  of  doubtful,  if  irregu- 
lar, standing  in  the  First  Church  —  not  to  mention  a 
sprinkling  of  the  world's  people,  including  two  re- 
porters, a  horse-jockey,  one  editor,  some  mill-girls 
out  on  a  strike,  a  down-town  bar-keeper,  and  a  drunk- 
ard —  were  in  the  meeting-house  that  afternoon. 

It  was  a  white  meeting-house  with  green  blinds. 
The  blinds  were  taken  off  in  the  winter,  to  save  the 
paint.  This  economical  process  being  under  way,  but 
as  yet  incomplete  at  the  time  we  refer  to,  the  church 
presented  to  the  irreverent  somewhat  the  aspect  of 
the  historic  personage  well  known  to  the  nursery, 
who  appeared  in  public  with  "  one  shoe  off  and  one 
shoe  on."     In  fact,  the  youngest  son  of  the  oldest 


324     THE  REVEREND  MALACHI  MATTHEW. 

deacon  had  disgraced  himself  and  the  family  by  dis- 
tinctly singing,  on  a  high  key,  outside  the  graveyard 
Avindows,  in  full  hearing  of  the  audience,  this  very 
refrain,  with  the  classic  addition  about  my  son  John, 
with  which  we  are  all  familiar. 

There  were  two  air-tight  stoves  in  the  meeting- 
house, with  black  funnels,  as  long  and  as  narrow  as 
theology,  running  the  length  of  the  building.  There 
were  fires  in  both  these  stoves.  All  the  windows 
were  closed.  The  double  windows,  however,  as  if  to 
furnish  the  casuistical  mind  with,  at  least,  one  proof 
of  the  benevolence  of  the  Creator,  were  not  yet  on. 
Ventilators,  the  First  Church  would  have  you  under- 
stand, were  not  in  vogue  when  the  First  Church  was 
built.  It  had  yet  to  be  learned  that  the  apostles 
used  ventilators,  or  that  the  early  Fathers  were  de- 
pendent upon  oxygen.  Nothing  so  fresh  as  fresh 
air-  need  be  expected  of  Pepperville  First  Church 
and  Society.  We  were  conservative  and  cautious. 
If  carbonic  acid  gas  was  good  enough  for  our  sainted 
ancestors,  it  was  good  enough  for  us.  If  they  raised 
Christians  on  it,  why  could  not  we  ? 

Besides,  the  senior  deacon  had  to  wear  a  skull-cap, 
as  it  was ;  two  of  the  pillars  were  bald,  but  would  n't 
own  it ;  the  superintendent's  wife  was  of  what  is 
known  in  Pepperville  as  "  a  chilly  disposition,"  and 
the  heaviest  pew-owner  kept  his  own  domestic  ther- 
mometer at  82°. 

The  exercises  in  the  church  on  this  November  day 
(it  was  a  Tuesday  of  which  I  speak)  had  begun  at 
nine  o'clock  in  the  morning.  There  had  been  an  in- 
terval of  an  hour  for  a  cold  collation  in  the  vestry, 
between  twelve  and  one.     The   "  performance  "  (as 


THE  REVEREND  MALACHI  MATTHEW.    325 

the  bar-tender  called  it,  but  was  correoted  by  the 
horse-jockey,  who  preferred  circus)  had  begun  again 
at  one.  For  seven  mortal  hours  all  Pepperville,  in 
its  best  clothes,  had  sat  between  those  two  air-tights, 
anxious,  intent,  intense.  It  was  now  five  o'clock, 
and  Pepperville  was  let  loose. 

There  were  the  young  men,  the  very  young  men, 
the  boys,  awkwardly  adorning  the  long  flight  of 
wooden  steps  which  they  gazed  at  sadly,  as  those 
who  were  prevented  by  force  of  public  opinion  from 
whittling.  There  were  the  young  men  comparing 
keen,  alert  young  impressions ;  nodding  sharply ; 
laughing,  not  always  pleasantly;  receptive  as  moss 
is  to  a  northeaster  ;  growing  as  silently  as  the  young 
oak  ;  the  future  fathers  of  the  great  church  or  future 
victims  of  the  great  world,  swarming  in  and  out  of 
Pepperville  meeting-house  in  business  hours,  as  if 
they  had  a  President  to  elect,  or  a  felon  to  try,  or  a 
race  to  see. 

There  were  the  women,  oh  !  the  women !  grave 
and  gay,  saint  and  sinner,  maid  and  matron,  black 
silk  and  alpaca,  in  groups,  in  twos,  alone,  manned 
and  manless,  chattering,  silent,  whispering,  tearful, 
giggling,  stern.  0  my  sisters,  to  whom  the  sweet- 
ness and  light  of  the  earth  are  intrusted,  what  mon- 
ster or  what  marvel  came  ye  out  for  to  see,  that  ye 
sit  seven  hours  idle  here  on  ironing-day  ? 

There  were  the  pillars  —  Heaven  guide  the  pillars  ! 
—  the  solid,  tax-paying,  anxious  brethren,  with  the 
furrowed  brows,  with  the  bent  shoulders,  with  the 
respectable  overcoats,  with  the  whole  Denomination 
at  their  backs,  not  to  say  at  their  heels.  They  came 
next;    they   walked    decorously   and    spoke    under 


326    THE  REVEREND  MALACHI  MATTHEW. 

breath,  as  at  a  funeral ;  they  conversed  confidentially 
with  the  important  men  who  constituted  the  rear- 
guard of  this  agitated  army. 

These  important  men  Avere  strangers  chiefly,  the 
guests  of  Pepperville  and  of  the  First  Church  ;  bet- 
ter looking  than  the  deacons,  better- dressed  than  the 
pillars,  used  better  grammar  than  the  members ; 
clearly  an  imported  article,  but  clerical,  wholly. 
This  rearguard  composed  a  familiar  and  fearful  body 
known  in  ecclesiastical  communities  as  a  "  counsel," 
a  "  consul,"  a  "  caounsl,"  or  even  as  a  council. 

This  Council,  which  had  met  (on  ironing-day,  as 
might  have  been  expected  of  the  sex)  to  honor  Pep- 
perville by  its  presence  and  advice,  at  five  o'clock 
that  afternoon  presented  a  grave  ai)pearance. 

Its  brow  was  dark,  its  eyes  were  bright,  its  lips 
compressed,  its  voice  severe.  Now  and  then  it 
slipped  up  on  the  lifelong  ministerial  habit  of  jok- 
ing, and  forgot  itself ;  but  for  the  most  part  it  re- 
membered itself  very  well,  and  comported  itself  with 
the  gloom  which  was  evidently  felt  to  hang  over  the 
occasion. 

It  discoursed  plaintively,  in  low  tones,  as  it  joggled 
slowly  doAvn  the  aisle  behind  the  dispersing  crowd. 
Occasionally  it  wiped  a  furtive  eye.  Sometimes  it 
clenched  a  sacred  hand.  Whether  it  was  a  council 
in  affliction  or  a  council  on  the  war-path  was  a  ques- 
tion which  a  neutral  observer  would  have  not  been 
able  immediately  to  decide  ;  but  that  it  was  no  com- 
mon council,  met  under  no  common  circumstances, 
was  not  to  be  doubted. 

Slowly  out  of  the  First  Church,  down  betAveen  the 
air-tights,  out  of  the  red-hot  audieuce-room,  through 


THE  REVEREND  MALACHI  MATTHEW.    82T 

the  draughty,  wheezy  little  entry,  down  the  wooden 
steps,  out  of  the  carbonic  acid  gas  into  the  fresh  air, 
wriggled  all  Pepperville  as  best  it  might,  —  the  maids, 
the  matrons,  the  youths,  the  deacons,  the  pillars,  the 
rumseller,  the  reporter,  the  horse-jockey,  the  mill- 
girls,  and  the  drunkard ;  and  the  Council  solemnly 
bringing  up  their  rear,  —  as  if  to  guide  a  flock  of 
steers  that  had  been  driven  into  a  narrow  street,  got 
frightened  by  a  dog,  and  were  jumping  fences.  As 
the  crowd  reached  the  air,  the  hum  of  voices  rose  to 
something  intense.  Pepperville  was  in  subdued 
hysterics. 

At  a  wide  di*stance  from  the  gesticulating,  arguing, 
angry  crowd,  far  behind  the  Council,  far  behind  the 
deacons,  and  out  of  the  way  of  everybody,  there  stole 
silently  down  the  fast-darkening  aisle  the  object  of 
this  mad  excitement. 

It  was  a  tall,  young  man ;  a  very  young  man.  His 
hair  was  light  and  long  ;  his  arm  was  long  and  lank  ; 
he  stooped ;  his  best  coat  was  shiny  on  the  seams. 
He  was  very  pale  and  had  a  scared  look.  He 
walked  weakly  and  tottered  once  or  twice. 

He  was  (or  would  have  been)  the  Reverend  Malachi 
Matthew. 

He  was  the  pastor  (non-elect)  of  the  First  Church 
in  Pepperville.  The  poor  young  man  was  not 
"  sound."     The  Council  had  refused  to  ordain  him. 

As  he  crawled  feeling  his  way  down  the  aisle,  a 
woman  crept  out  of  one  of  the  pews.  It  was  now 
almost  dark  where  she  sat.  She  was  a  little  woman. 
She  wore  a  black  alpaca  suit  and  straw  bonnet,  and 
a  pair  of  new  kid  gloves,  too  large  for  hands  plainly 
unused  to  them.     She  was  a  very  gentle,  rather  a 


328    THE  REVEREND  MALACHI  MATTHEW. 

pretty  little  woman,  and  she  crept  up  to  him  with  a 
silent  gesture  of  comfort. 

"  Well,  Mary  ?  "  said  the  poor  young  man. 
"  Never  mind,  dear,"  said  Mary. 
She  put  her  arm  through  his  and  closed  her  two 
hands  together  over  it. 

"  I  had  to  be  honest,  Mary.  I  could  n't  help  it. 
Could  I  ?  " 

"I  did  n't  understand  it  all,"  sobbed  Mary ;  "but 
I  am  sure  you  were  right." 

Both  were  thinking  what  neither  dared  to  say,  as 
they  walked,  a  little  set  apart  from  the  others,  down 
the  broad  aisle  together,  through  the  gathering  gloom 
of  the  fast-emptying  church.     What  next  ? 

Three  years  in  the  academy,  four  at  college,  two 
teaching  school,  three  in  the  seminary ;  all  he  had, 
long  since  gone ;  all  he  could  borrow  wellnigh  taken ; 
every  nerve  of  soul  and  body  strained  to  hold  out 
till  the  first  call;  in  debt  and  in  doubt  and  in  dis- 
grace —    What  next  ? 

Married  just  out  of  college,  when  they  thought  he 
would  teach  a  high  school  for  life ;  drawn  by  the 
morbid  New  England  conscience  into  the  ministry 
"from  a  sense  of  Christian  duty ;  "  fighting  his  way, 
with  a  wife  and  three  babies  about  him,  inch  by  inch 
through  the  theological  school ;  counting  the  months, 
adjusting  the  days  to  a  dime's  expenses  more  or  less, 
till  he  should  be  a  man  again  and  free  to  go  to  work 
—  for  this  ;  for  this  ! 

They  had  lived  it  all  over  in  the  space  of  time  it 
took  them  to  crawl  down  that  broad  aisle  from  the 
pulpit  platform  to  the  wheezy  entry  —  those  years 
in  the  little  tenements,  such  as  were  reserved  for  the 


THE  REVEREND  MALACHI  MATTHEW.    329 

"washwomen  and  the  poor  students  in  the  seminary- 
town  ;  where  he  studied  with  cotton  in  his  ears,  to 
deaden  the  sound  of  the  baby's  crying ;  the  years 
when  they  went  without  meats  and  fires  and  flannels 
and  doctors  and  books,  and  when  he  preached  in 
mission  churches  for  two  dollars  and  a  half  a  Sunday 
once  in  a  while ;  those  years  when  they  had  planned 
and  contrived  and  given  each  other  slow  drops  of  pre- 
cious courage,  and  hungered  and  shivered  and  sick- 
ened and  never  despaired  —  "for  Christ's  sake,"  they 
called  it ;  to  "  preach  the  Gospel,"  they  used  to  say 
—  those  years  when  they  had  sat  together  spending 
over  and  again  the  first  quarter's  salary  from  "  their 
parish  "  that  was  to  be  ;  so  much,  first,  for  the  debt ; 
so  much  for  an  encyclopaedia ;  this  for  a  coat  for  him 
to  preach  in  ;  that  for  a  winter  cloak  for  her  to  hear 
him  in,  since  it  would  never  do  for  a  minister's  wife 
to  wear  the  blanket  shawl ;  that,  perhaps,  for  a  baby- 
carriage,  to  save  her  strength.     Oh  !  those  years. 

And  now,  what  next  ? 

They  only  clung  to  each  other  ;  there  was  nothing 
to  say.  Once  he  patted  her  hand  in  the  dark,  when 
it  closed  about  his  shaking  arm. 

Pepperville,  on  the  church-steps  and  out  in  the 
keen  E^ovember  air,  surged  to  and  fro. 

Poor  little  Mr.  Malachi  Matthew  had  doubts  as  to 
the  final  and  eternal  disposition  of  the  impenitent, 
immediately  upon  the  incident  of  death.  He  had 
been  man  enough  to  say  so.  For  seven  mortal 
hours  this  modest  young  fellow,  who  desired  to 
preach  the  gospel  of  Christ,  had  been  badgered  and 
cross-questioned,  with  his  whole  history  of  self- 
denial  behind  him  and  professional  ruin  before  him, 


330    THE  REVEREND  MALACHI  MATTHEW. 

Jiis  wife  watching  him  from  the  front  pew,  his 
babies  and  his  creditors  awaiting  him.  He  had  been 
raked  fore  and  aft  by  all  the  doctrines  that  had  a 
lodgment  in  all  the  heads  of  all  the  Council,  —  Pre- 
destination, Justification,  Foreknowledge  Absolute, 
Total  Depravity,  the  Trinity,  Vicarious  Atonement, 
Verbal  and  Plenary  Inspiration,  Eegeneration,  Sanc- 
tification,  and  Botheration,  —  and  he  had  come  out  of 
them  all  like  a  scholar  and  a  Puritan,  with  a  clear 
head,  good  sense,  and  the  calm,  dogmatic  assurance 
to  which  he  had  been  trained,  gome  of  the  questions 
which  were  asked  him  were  of  interest  as  ecclesias- 
tical curiosities  :  "  Did  the  Son  exist  coordinate  with 
and  yet  subordinate  to  the  Father  ?  "  "  Were  the 
three  Persons  in  the  Trinity  separate  as  qualities, 
or  as  natures  ?"  ''Was  the  first  sin  of  a  child  an 
infinite  fact  requiring  an  infinite  punishment  and  in- 
volving  an  infinite  atonement  ?  "  "  Did  an  impeni- 
tent person  ever  pray  ?  "  "  Could  a  man  become 
regenerate  without  waiting  for  the  compelling  action 
of  the  Holy  Spirit  ?  "  "  Were  the  audience  in  Pep- 
perville  First  Church  responsible  for  the  guilt  of 
Adam  ?  " 

So  far  the  candidate  triumphantly  remained,  hop- 
ping about  in  the  theological  sieve.  Up  to  that 
point  they  could  not  strain  him  through.  He  was  well 
versed  in  all  these  important  particulars.  He  had 
the  tongue  of  the  ready.  So  far  as  these  vital  mat- 
ters went,  he  was  fully  qualified  to  preach  the  gos- 
pel of  the  Nazarene.  Nobody  put  to  him  any  less 
burning  questions.  Nobody  asked  him  for  his  views 
on  the  great  modern  theories  about  pauperism  or  in- 
temperance.    No    one    wanted    to    know    how    he 


THE  REVEREND  MALACHI  MATTHEW.    331 

thoiiglit  a  Christian  minister  ought  to  treat  a  beggar, 
or  cure  a  drunkard,  or  save  a  castaway. 

I^ot  one  of  these  pious  and  learned  gentlemen  had 
inquired  what  he  would  do  with  a  young  forger  ; 
how  he  would  manage  a  tempted  girl ;  how  he 
would  handle  a  dissipated  boy;  how  he  would  in- 
culcate purity  among  little  children  ;  how  he  would 
treat  a  pardoned  prisoner ;  what  were  his  views  on 
the  relation  of  working-people  to  their  employers  ; 
how  he  would  amuse  the  young  people  of  his  parish 
on  winter  evenings  ;  how  he  should  treat  spiritual- 
ism, politics,  the  great  charities,  the  refining  arts, 
and  domestic  duties  in  his  pulpit. 

At  length,  as  the  subject  of  Eschatology  comes 
last  on  the  theological  betting-list,  poor  young  Mr. 
Malachi  INIatthew  reached  the  point  Avhere  he  missed 
his  "  Reverend  "  and  his  parish,  and  where  Pepper- 
ville  began  to  surge.  Did  the  candidate  believe  in 
the  doctrine  of  an  Everlasting  Punishment?  Did 
he  explicitly  hold  that  the  impenitent  are  damned  at 
death,  without  further  or  second  probation,  and  that 
opportunity  for  salvation  ends  with  this  life  ? 

The  candidate  gazed  at  the  lynx-eyed  Council, 
glanced  at  the  breathless  audience  (his  first  people, 
who  had  chosen  and  loved  him),  looked  once  at  his 
wife,  thought  of  his  babies,  thought  of  his  creditors 
—  hesitated  for  the  space  of  one  of  those  conflicts 
an  instant  broad,  but  deep  as  eternity,  in  which 
young  preachers  have  sold  their  souls,  —  then  man- 
fully held  up  his  head,  and,  in  a  modest  but  distinct 
voice,  said  he  did  not  know. 

Then  the  hounds  were  let  loose  upon  him.  This 
was  at  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning.     From  midday 


332    TUE  REVEREND  MALACUI  MATTHEW. 

till  twilight  the  keener  heresy-hunters,  in  a  Council 
famed  for  its  Orthodoxy,  chased  the  poor  fellow 
hither  and  yon.  He  would  not  lie.  He  really  did 
not  know.  He  felt  it  to  be  possible  that  the  limits 
of  the  Almighty's  loving-kindness  might  exceed  the 
wisdom  of  even  the  soundest  theological  education. 
He  experienced  doubt  as  to  his  own  fitness,  at  his 
present  age  and  stage  of  training,  to  pass  final  judg- 
ment u^jon  a  matter  of  such  fundamental  gravity, 
and  one  upon  which  the  wise  and  devout  were  at 
present  more  than  usually  in  divergence  of  opinion. 
He  even  admitted  that  he  thought  it  possible  that 
death  did  not  finally  damn  every  unready,  sinful  soul 
that  appeared  before  its  Eternal  Father  for  judg- 
ment. He  had  a  formula  of  his  own,  poor  fellow,  by 
which  he  had  expected  to  give  ecclesiastical  satisfac- 
tion ;  but  they  muddled  it  all  out  of  him  or  rolled  it 
away  from  under  him,  like  the  mule  on  which  we 
hang  horse-thieves  in  our  good  Western  States,  and 
so  left  him  to  his  professional  death.  He  met  it 
quietly  —  neither  hedged,  nor  equivocated,  nor  re- 
tracted ;  and  the  Council  dissolved,  leaving  him 
branded  as  a  heretic,  without  a  pulpit,  and  the  First 
Church  in  an  uproar,  without  a  pastor. 

Now,  it  so  chanced  that  nothing  worse  than  this, 
short  of  eternal  damnation  itself,  could  well  have 
happened  to  Pepperville  First  Church  and  Society. 
Their  last  pastor,  a  man  beloved  by  many  and  re- 
spected by  all,  had  resigned,  accused  of  unsoundness 
by  a  faction  in  the  parish.  For  two  years  before  he 
left  them,  Pepperville  had  been  torn  from  end  to 
end  by  the  Nature  of  —  I  think  it  was  Predestina- 
tion.    For  two  years  thereafter  the  parish  had  been 


THE  BEVEBEND  MALACHI  MATTHEW.    333 

pastorless,  searching  tlie  ecclesiastical  battle-field  for 
a  talented,  eloquent,  healthy,  married,  sound  man, 
anxious  to  preach  the  gospel  on  a  small  salary,  not 
requiring  a  year  in  Europe  to  start  off  on,  capable  of 
originating  a  f evival  the  first  winter,  and  filling  the 
house  on  stormy  Sundaj's.  These  requirements, 
even  to  the  revival,  had  been  so  well  met,  during  his 
candidacy,  by  Mr.  Malachi  Matthew  that  the  people 
had  found  themselves  already  zealously,  even  affec- 
tionately inclined  to  their  chosen  pastor.  Therefore, 
Pepperville  had  received  a  blow.  Therefore,  Pep- 
perville  surged,  as  I  say. 

"The  laxity  of  the  present  day  presents  many 
subtle  devices,"  observed  the  oldest  member  of  the 
Council.  He  wore  a  huge  collar  and  white  choker, 
into  which  he  sank,  after  he  had  spoken,  with  the 
air  of  a  man  who  said  :  "  My  sacred  office  !  Respect 
it,  and  do  not  hit  me  as  hard  as  you  would  a  secular 
man." 

''It  seems  to  me,  Dr.  Croaker,"  said  one  of  the 
younger  brethren,  crushing  on  his  soft  felt  hat,  and 
feeling  with  rather  a  worldly  air  for  the  ends  of  his 
mustache  — "  it  seemed  to  me  the  man  was  more 
muddled  than  anything  else.  I  suppose  we  all  have 
our  little  private  reservations.  These  things  have 
to  be  taken  for  substance  of  doctrine.  It 's  a  bad 
mess,  anyhow." 

"  If  he  had  only  paid  more  attention,  Brother 
Smart,  to  my  question  about  the  nature  of  duration," 
chimed  in  earnestly  an  honest,  plain  brother,  from  a 
rural  parish,  "  it  seemed  to  me  he  could  have  extri- 
cated himself.  There  was  a  nice  psychological 
point  there.  I  tried  to  help  him.  He  would  n't  see 
it.     I  was  sorry  for  him." 


334    THE  REVEREND  MALACHI  MATTHEW. 

"  It  is  better  as  it  is,  Brother  Heartj'^,"  said  Dr. 
Croaker.  "  It  is  time  that  we  made  a  stand  —  made 
a  stand.  The  young  man  represents  a  fatal  weak- 
ness in  our  modern  theology.  There  must  be  some 
examples  made.  It  might  as  well  be  Re  as  another. 
God's  Word  is  not  to  be  trifled  with." 

"  It  struck  me,"  interposed  one  of  the  Society  (a 
brisk  manufacturer,  who  rented  a  front  pew,  but  did 
not  ''  profess  ")  — "  it  struck  me  that  was  precisely 
what  Mr.  Matthew  thought.  As  nearly  as  the  pro- 
fane mind  could  grasp  what  you  were  up  to,  he 
claimed  that  the  Bible  left  so  much  room  for  a  dif- 
ference of  opinion  on  this  point  that  it  was  not  busi- 
ness-like to  play  too  sharp  a  game  with  the  text. 
That 's  what  I  took  him  to  mean." 

"  Sir,"  said  Dr.  Croaker  solemnly,  '<  I  am  sorry 
for  the  disappointment  of  the  First  Church  ;  but 
you  may  thank  the  Lord  that  you  have  been  warned 
in  time.  Great  danger  would  have  threatened  your 
youth  if  such  laxity  were  allowed  to  creep  into  the 
sheepfold,  under  the  very  banner  of  the  Shepherd." 
He  sheltered  himself  under  his  choker  and  turned 
ponderously  away. 

"  Calls  that  argument,  does  he  ?  Humph  !  "  said 
the  manufacturer  to  the  prosperous  retail  grocer, 
who  was  walking  sadly  by  his  side. 

*'  Never  saw  a  shepherd  with  a  banner  myself," 
said  the  grocer  ;  '•  but  perhaps  he  has.  There  's  no 
telling  what  that  stock  and  dickey  are  capable  of. 
Now  we've  got  to  begin  this  row  all  over  again. 
Four  years  more  of  it,  eh  ?  There  won't  be  any  too 
much  piety  left  in  this  parish  by  the  time  we  get  a 
man." 


THE  REVEREND  MALACHI  MATTHEW.    335 

"  It  is  very  strange,"  the  oldest  deacon  was  saying 
to  the  youngest  minister.  "  The  young  man  has 
preached  for  iis  nearly  a  year,  off  and  on.  We 
never  discovered  in  him  any  such  unsoundness  of 
views  as  you  have.  If  he  held  such  reprehensible 
doctrines  —  as  it  is  plain  he  does,  I  suppose  —  he 
never  preached  'em  in  this  pulpit.  It 's  all  nooz  to 
us.  It 's  a  great  pity ;  for  we  're  in  a  demoralized 
condition,  spiritooally  and  financially.  I  don't  know 
what  in  "  —  the  deacon  recollected  himself  in  time, 
drew  himself  up  sharply,  and  severely  said  — 
"  what  in  the  world  is  going  to  become  of  us  ?  " 

By  this  time  the  shriller  voices  of  the  women  be- 
came audible. 

'•  I  do  declare,  I  'm  awful  sorry  for  his  wife." 

"  Well,  she  's  married  a  heretic  ;  she  'd  better  have 
read  her  Bible  where  it  says  aboiit  being  j^oked  to 
unbelievers." 

"  She 's  kind  of  pretty.  Two  rows  of  something 
would  have  improved  that  alpaca." 

"  Yes ;  we  'd  have  fixed  her  up  after  they  came. 
She  might  have  had  one  of  Jordan  &  Marsh's  ready- 
made  suits  at  a  darnation  party." 

This  profane  suggestion  came  from  a  dressy  young 
girl,  whose  eyes  brimmed  with  something  for  which 
Pepperville  gave  scanty  overflow  room. 

"  Well,  she  split  one  of  her  gloves.  I  saw  it  — 
across  the  thumb." 

"  She  did  it  wringing  her  hands  together,  under 
her  overskirt,  out  of  sight,  after  she  saw  it  was  going 
against  him." 

"  Is  that  so  ?     How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  I  saw  her.  My  I  how  pale  he  was.  It 's  a 
shame." 


33G     THE  REVEREND  MALACIII  MATTHEW. 

"  It  seems  to  me  as  if  he  'd  played  a  kind  of  game 
on  us,  not  allowing  tliat  he  was  so  unsound  all  this 
while." 

*'  He 's  never  preached  one  damnation  sermon 
since  he  came,  come  to  think  of  it." 

''That  was  our  look-out,"  interposed  the  dressy 
young  lady.  "  If  we  wanted  damnation,  we  ought 
to  have  put  it  in  the  bargain.  A  little  more  heU- 
fire,  sir,  or  another  candidate." 

"  Mary  Eliza  !  "  said  a  matron  sternly,  "  if  you 
were  pious  yourself,  you  would  not  swear  like  that. 
It 's  very  unladylike,  besides." 

"  I  put  it  to  anybody  if  that  is  n't  the  upshot  of 
it  ?  "  said  Mary  Eliza.     "  There  's  Jim.     Ask  him." 

The  young  fellow  who  approached,  laying  down 
his  cigar  and  doffing  his  hat,  looked  rather  earnestly 
—  for  a  young  fellow  — at  the  pretty  girl. 

"  Miss  Mary,  can  you  make  out  what  they  want  it 
to  be  true  for  ?     I  can't." 

"  They  take  on  about  it  as  if  they  did ;  that 's  a 
fact,"  said  Mary  Eliza.  "One  would  think  —  if  it 
could  be  made  out  any  other  way  —  they  'd  be  glad 
of  it.  But,"  more  softly,  "it's  too  much  for  us, 
Jim.  May  be  true,  for  all  we  know.  Why,  yes.  I 
don't  know  but  I  '11  walk  a  little  way.  I  must  get 
home  to  supper.  How 's  your  pony,  Jim  ?  What 
was  it  she  hatl  ?  Blind  stages,  or  whooping  cough  ? 
I  forget." 

"  And  he  did  set  so  agreeable  on  this  parish  ! " 
continued  the  matron  who  had  rebuked  Mary  Eliza. 
"  His  sermon  on  affliction  I  never  heard  the  beat  of. 
It  was  a  beautiful  discourse.  Mis'  Penny  and  old 
Mis'  Drowsy,  they  cried  most  through  the  whole  of 


THE  REVEREND  MALACHI  MATTHEW.    337 

it.  There 's  few  young  men  could  have  had  such 
testimony  to  their  labors.  And  Mary  Eliza's  young- 
est sister  has  taken  an  interest  ever  since  he  's  been 
here.  For  my  part,  I  liked  him  iirst-rate  and  I  al- 
ways had  supposed  we  were  led.  But  it  seems  we 
was  n't." 

"I  liked  him  myself,"  courageously  uprose  an- 
other voice,  the  feeling  plainly  creeping,  like  a  slow 
tide,  in  favor  of  the  rejected  heretic.  "  He  had  such 
a  way  with  him.  He  's  the  first  minister  we  've  had 
here  my  Tom  would  look  at.  He  said  he  liked  his 
stories,  and  he  said  the  chap  was  honest.  It  was 
disrespectful  of  Tom  ;  but  he  did  —  he  called  him  a 
chap  !     You  know  boys  will  be  "  — 

"  I  don't  see  that  he  was  any  such  terrible  sight  of 
a  heretic,  after  all.     Do  you,  Miss  Teazer  ?  " 

"Why,  no,"  plaintively  from  Miss  Teazer,  a 
maiden  lady,  with  perplexed  eyes  and  assured  mouth. 
"Why,  no.  He  didn't  say  everybody  would  be 
saved.  Did  he  ?  It  was  only  heathen  and  —  let  me 
see  —  heathen,  idiots  —  and  what  was  the  other  ?  " 

"  Women,  perhaps,"  suggested  Mary  Eliza,  linger- 
ing to  laugh  back  across  her  pretty  shoulder. 

"  I  don't  think  it  was  women,"  said  Miss  Teazer, 
with  an  air  of  great  mental  acumen.  Somebody  sug- 
gested "  babies."  Mary  Eliza  observed  that  it  was 
all  the  same.  The  chatter  uprose  again  more  vehe- 
mentl}^,  if  not  more  coherently. 

"  After  the  tea-fights  and  coffee-scrapes  and  candy- 
pulls  and  the  sacred  tableaux,  us  women  have  gone 
through  to  raise  his  salary  to  nine  hundred  dollars, 
for  my  part,  I  think  a  lot  of  men  had  n't  ought  to  sit 
and  vote  our  minister  away  from  us.     Now,  I  s'pose 


338    THE  REVEREND  MALACHI  MATTHEW. 

we  've  got  it  all  to  do  over  again.  My  doctor  's  for- 
bid me  ever  taking  a  table  again.  Jenny  says  she 
wishes  Kebecca  at  the  Well  had  never  been  born. 
She  caught  her  bronchitis  out  of  the  lemonade,  you 
know." 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Banner,  have  you  heard  about  the 
fight  in  the  Keform  Club  ?  " 

"  AMiy,  I  heard  they  'd  fit ;  but,  there,  I  've  been 
so  busy  getting  ready  for  this  Consul,  I  have  n't 
been  able  to  'tend  up  to  the  Eeform  Club  very  well." 

"  Nor  I  have  n't,  either.  I  heard  Job  Jacobs  had 
broken." 

"  So  did  I ;  but  he  was  out  to-day.     It 's  a  shame." 

"  So  it  is.  They  need  a  lot  of  looking  after.  I 
wish  we  had  more  time.  Oh,  Miss  Teazer,  I  be- 
lieve Molly  McGilp  is  in  3'our  class.  Can  you  tell 
me  the  facts  about  that  story,  you  know,  that 's  going 
the  rounds  about  her  ?  I  said  I  would  n't  believe  it 
till  I  knew  it,  j^ou  know." 

"  I  have  n't  seen  Molly,  lately,"  said  Miss  Teazer. 
"  She  was  n't  at  Sunday-school,  and  we  have  been  so 
extremely  busy.  You  know  we  entertained  tivo 
clergymen  at  our  house.  There  was  a  good,  deal  of 
cake  to  bake,  and  I  always  make  the  sausages  my- 
self for  such  occasions.  We  sent  something  to  the 
church,  too.  It  has  been  a  very  busy  season.  I 
hope  I  have  n't  neglected  Molly.  I  shall  hunt  her 
up  this  week." 

"How  long  do  j'-ou  suppose  this  eternal  punish- 
ment lasts,  anyway  ?  " 

"  There 's  Mr.  Bowker.  Let 's  ask  him.  Men 
know  things." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know.     Seems  to  me  they  did  n't 


THE  REVEREND  MALACHI  MATTHEW.    339 

know  any  too  much  to-day.  Mr.  Matthew  lost  his 
breath  when  they  asked  him  if  he  would  send  a  Five 
Points  thief  to  Heaven." 

"  Is  that  so  ?  " 

"Yes,  'n'  I  thought  she  would  faint  when  they 
tripped  him  up  so  on  Gehenna  and  that  Greek  word. 
But  I  guess  she  ain't  the  fainting  kind.  Thank  you, 
Mr.  Bowker.  It  is  rather  a  heavy  shawl.  We  were 
just  going  to  ask  you  how  long  eternal  punishment 
really  lasts.     We  thought  you  'd  know." 

As  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Malachi  Matthew  came  out  of 
the  church,  looking  about  them  timidly,  they  found 
themselves  close  upon  a  little  group  which  seemed 
almost  as  set  apart  as  they  were,  from  the  members 
of  Pepperville  First  Church  and  the  Reverend  Coun- 
cil presiding  over  its  Orthodoxy  on  that  unfortunate 
day. 

This  group  was  composed  of  a  few  mill-girls,  the 
rumseller,  the  drunkard,  and  the  horse-jockey,  and 
were  all  in  excellent  spirits.  One  of  the  reporters 
stood  not  far  off,  writing  on  the  top  of  his  hat.  The 
editor  lingered  behind  the  Eeverend  Mr.  Smart  and 
Mr.  Hearty,  and  looked  back  nodding,  not  unkindly, 
at  the  heretic  minister.  After  a  moment's  hesita- 
tion, this  gentleman  came  back  and  shook  hands 
with  the  disgraced  man,  and  said  he  would  be  glad 
of  a  digest  of  his  views  for  "  The  Watch-Tower  of 
Zion ;  "  but  that  he  was  late  to  his  train  and  must 
hasten  away.  This  attracted  the  attention  of 
Brother  Hearty  to  the  forlorn  position  of  the  two 
poor  young  people,  and  he  turned  to  speak  to  them. 
One  or  two  women  of  the  parish,  conspicuously  Mrs. 
Drowsy,  who  found  such  comfort  in  weeping  over 


340    THE  REVEREND  MALACHI  MATTHEW. 

the  sermon  on  Affliction,  also  made  as  if  they  would 
address  the  beloved  pastor,  who  had  taught  them 
such  deadly  doctrine  for  a  year  without  their  know- 
ing it.  But  some  one  was  before  them  all.  It  was 
a  well-dressed,  self-possessed  man,  with  a  large  gold 
watch-giiard  and  a  large,  cold  eye.  He  tipped  his 
hat  to  the  young  preacher,  and  intimated  that  he 
had  a  word  to  say  to  him. 

"  Are  you  in  concern,  my  brother  ? "  asked  Mr. 
Malachi  Matthew,  flushing  a  little  with  pleasure  at 
this  appeal. 

"  Why,  no,"  said  the  man,  "  it 's  no  concern  of 
mine.  That's  a  fact.  It's  yoio'  concern,  I  know. 
All  I  'm  after  is  just  to  say  I  like  your  grit." 

"  Thank  j  ou,  my  friend,"  said  the  minister,  a  lit- 
tle embarrassed. 

"  I  ain't  your  friend.  Don't  you  mistake.  I  ain't 
pious.  I  sell  rum.  I  don't  drink  myself.  It 's  a 
nasty  habit.  Keeps  you  poor.  I  never  drink.  But 
I  sell.  I  sell  to  Job  Jacobs  here.  I  '11  own  it.  It 's 
ruined  him.  He  went  to  hear  you  one  spell.  Give 
me  the  cold  shoulder  for  a  month.  I  was  glad  of  it. 
Job  and  me  was  boys  together,  and  I  would  n't  mind 
if  you  did  sober  Job.  But  what  I  come  to  say  is,  I 
like  your  pluck.  I  heard  you  preach  that  temper- 
ance discourse  of  yours.  It  cost  me  several  custom- 
ers —  for  a  time  ;  but  I  liked  it.  You  attend  to 
your  business.  I  'tend  to  mine.  According  to  your 
views,  I  'm  one  of  them  that  '11  go  to  the  place  they 
haul  you  up  for  knowing  nothin'  about  it,  never  hav- 
ing had  a  personal  experience  ;  but  I  can't  help  that. 
May  be  such  a  place  for  aught  I  say.  I  should  n't 
wonder.     I  ain't  pious,  but  I  like  your  grit." 


THE  REVEREND  MALACHI  MATTHEW.    341 

"  Like  'em  myself,"  said  the  drunkard  solemnly. 
He  stood  beside  the  rumseller  in  a  friendly  man- 
ner. 

"Oh,  Job!"  said  Mr.  Malachi  Matthew,  "do  I 
see  you  intoxicated  again  ?     And  in  church  too  ?  " 

"Come  to  hear  'em  pitch  in  ter  yer,"  said  Job. 
"  Sorry  yer  goin'.  Giv'  yer  my  'and.  Club 's  busted. 
Eeform  if  yer  stay." 

"  Come,  come,  Job,"  said  the  rumseller,  a  little 
abashed ;  for  a  crowd  was  gathering.  He  jjut  his 
arm  through  Job's,  and  they  walked  unsteadily  away. 
Mr.  and  ]\Irs.  IMalachi  ]\Iatthew  looked  sadly  after 
them ;  but  Brother  Hearty  came  up,  and  some  of  the 
sisters,  and  the  two  young  people  shook  hands  with 
these  few  friends,  and  exchanged  a  few  confused 
words.  They  were  very  tired  and  wished  to  be 
alone.  They  looked  about,  still  timidly,  and  walked 
as  if  uncertain  of  their  next  step. 

The  horse-jockey  lingered  behind,  with  the  mill- 
girls  ;  more  especially  with  one  mill-girl,  who  wore 
a  red  feather  and  bead  trimming.  One  of  the  others 
said  :  — 

"  Molly  McGilp,  Bob  wants  you." 

"  I  want  to  know ! "  said  Molly.  A  little  stir 
while  they  stood  there  attracted  their  attention.  One 
of  the  Sunday-school  teachers,  a  conscientious  girl, 
was  collecting  the  infant-class  in  the  vestry  for  half 
an  hour's  rehearsal  for  the  Christmas  concert.  They 
met  on  Tuesdays,  just  before  tea,  for  this  commend- 
able purpose.  The  conscientious  girl  was  very  tired 
to-night,  with  her  seven  hours'  session  at  the  Coun- 
cil, and  collected  her  flock  with  difficulty.  As  soon 
as  the  doors  were  shut,  they  began  at  once  to  sing. 


342     TllJi  REVEREND  MALACHI  MATTHEW. 

The  conscientious  girl  played  the  instrument  known 
as  a  cabinet  organ.     The  children  shrilly  sang  :  — 

"  Jesus  loves  me,  that  I  know, 
For  the  Bible  tells  me  so !  " 

"  Hear  that,"  said  Bob. 

"Molly's  graduated  from  the  Sunday-school," 
said  one  of  the  girls.     "  She  was  n't  sound." 

"  You  need  n't  have  said  it,  Meg,"  said  ^lolly,  in 
a  low  voice.  She  looked  down  the  dark  street 
where  the  drunkard,  now  deserted  by  the  rumseller, 
reeled  away  alone.  At  the  bend  of  the  road  a  shad- 
owy figure  or  figures  watched  for  him.  It  looked 
like  the  ghost  of  a  woman  holding  the  hand  of  a 
ghastly  child. 

"  Poor  Job  !  "  said  the  girl.     "  I  'm  sorry  for  Job." 

The  little  voices  from  the  vestry  sang  out,  with 
gathering  force :  — 

' '  Jesus  loves  me,  that  I  know. " 

"He  took  a  shine  to  the  new  parson  for  a  while," 
said  Molly.  "And  while  they  kept  that  Keform 
Club  going  he  kept  real  straight.  The  women  petted 
him  at  first;  but  I  suppose  they  got  tired  of  him. 
That  Club 's  about  broke  up.  There  's  nothing  going 
on  in  Pepperville  but  heresy  these  days.  Seems 
they  're  so  anxious  we  shall  be  damned  in  the  next 
world  they  have  n't  time  to  notice  what  we  do  in 
this." 

"  I  don't  know  's  that 's  exactly  fair,  Molly,"  said 
the  quietest  of  the  girls.     "  Some  of  'em  mean  well." 

"  Oh,  yes,  we  all  mean  well,"  said  Molly  wearily. 
"  Here  's  Bob.     He  means  well.     Don't  you.  Bob  ?  " 

She  flung  him  a  bitter  look;  but,  softening,  her 
fine,  dark  eyes  wandered  down  the  street. 


THE  REVEREND  MALACHI  MATTHEW.    343 

"  There  's  Job's  wife,  waiting  for  him.  And  the 
young  one.  See !  she 's  got  him  by  the  arm.  How 
she  begs  !  Asking  him  to  go  home.  Cruel  they 
are  —  men!  Poor  Betty!  Job  used  to  be  a  hand- 
some fellow." 

She  broke  into  wild  singing ;  a  snatch  of  a  chorus 
that  the  girls  liked,  and  carried  from  loom  to  loom, 
with  passionate  power,  on  dark  winter  afternoons : — 

"  Let  us  live,  let  iis  live, 

While  we  can. 
Where  is  the  soul 

Of  a  man  ? 
Find  out  for  yourself, 

By  and  by. 
To-morrow,  to-morrow 

We  die." 

One  of  Molly's  companions  took  up  the  refrain, 
and  the  horse-jockey  struck  in  on  the  bass  in  the 
last  line  ;  but  the  Sunday-school  class  in  the  vestry 
went  bravely  on,  and  strong  athwart  the  factory 
song  the  children's  voices  grew  :  — 

"  Lord,  thou  hast  here  thy  ninety-and-nine  ; 
Are  they  not  enough  for  thee  ? 
But  the  shepherd  made  answer :   '  This  of  mine 
Has  wandered  away  from  me  !  '  " 

The  conilict  of  these  two  discordant  strains  flung  it- 
self far  in  the  clear  November  air ;  and  many  of  the 
good  people  going  home  from  the  meeting-house 
heard  the  sound,  and  lingered,  listening  or  comment- 
ing idly  among  themselves ;  how  faithful  Lucy  was 
with  her  class  ;  how  rude  the  mill-girls  were  grow- 
ing since  the  strike;  and  what  was  that  point  Dr. 
Croaker  made  about  the  difference  between  restora- 
tion and  annihilation  ?  and,  if  a  man  were  unable  to 
repent  until  the  Holy  Spirit  — 


344    THE  REVEREND  MALACHI  MATTHEW. 

"  But  none  of  the  ransomed  ever  knew 

How  dark  was  the  niglit  that  the  Lord  passed  through, 
Till  he  found  the  sheep  that  was  lost !  " 

sang  the  little  voices  in  the  vestry. 

"  Come,  Molly,"  said  the  horse-jockey,  after  a  mo- 
ment's hesitation.     "  Have  an  oyster  supper  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  as  I  will  to-night,  Bob,"  said  the 
girl.  The  others  had  moved  away.  The  young 
man  and  the  young  woman  stood  by  themselves  in 
the  shadow  of  the  now  dark  and  deserted  church. 
Molly  looked  up  once  at  the  height  of  the  white, 
dumb  building.     In  the  darkness  it  seemed  to  frown. 

"  I  go  to  the  desert  to  find  my  sheep," 

sang  once  more  the  unconscious  children. 

"  Come,  Molly." 

She  shook  her  head,  and,  putting  out  one  hand, 
she  even  gently  motioned  him  away. 

The  Sunday-school  hymns  stopped.  The  conscien- 
tious girl  closed  the  cabinet  organ.  The  children 
flocked  out.  Lucy  locked  the  vestry  door.  Her 
class  clung  about  her,  as  she  walked 'away.  Their 
steps  grew  fainter.  The  voices  of  the  crowd  return- 
ing from  the  Council  had  now  quite  died  away. 
These  good  people  were  all  well  in  their  respectable 
homes,  preparing  to  eat  their  respectable  suppers, 
and  respectably  have  family  prayers.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Malachi  Matthew  were  sitting  side  by  side,  quite 
silent,  aboard  the  evening  train.  The  well-dressed 
mmseller  vividly  described  the  afternoon's  events 
across  his  counter,  as  he  recommended  "  Bitters  "  to 
a  boy  who  feared  to  find  whiskey  too  much  for  him. 
Job  Jacobs  struck  out  rather  hard  at  the  man  who 


THE  REVEREND  MALACHI  MATTHEW.    345 

spoke  slightingly  of  the  parson,  and,  getting  knocked 
down  and  more  than  usually  trampled  on,  was  sent 
home,  looking  badly  enough,  to  his  wife.  She  was 
listening,  and  came  with  a  light  in  her  hand.  A 
sickly  child  followed  her.  The  baby  was  crying. 
The  house  was  cold,  and  there  seemed  to  have  been 
no  supper. 

"  Poor  Job  ! "  she  said,  as  they  brought  him  in. 

"  It 's  blamed  ghastly  here  by  the  graveyard," 
said  Bob,  after  a  long  silence.  "  Ain't  you  tired  of 
it,  Moll  ?  " 

'■'  Go  home  without  me  —  this  once.  Bob." 

"  Molly,  come  !  " 

"  I  wonder  how  high  that  spire  goes  ! "  said  Molly 
coldly.  She  was  looking  up,  infinitely  up,  beyond 
the  fine,  vanishing  point  that  the  spire  made  against 
the  sky,  among  the  stars.  But  it  tired  her  eyes  to 
do  this.  She  turned  away  and  put  her  hand  through 
the  young  fellow's  arm.  She  did  not  talk  as  they 
walked  down  the  lighted  street,  and  Bob  hummed 
the  factory  song  until  she  joined  him,  faintly, 
louder,  clearer,  strong  at  last :  — 

"  Let  us  live,  let  us  live 
While  we  can. 
Where  is  the  soul 
Of  a  man  ?  " 


HIS   EELICT. 

It  is  fifty-seven  years  since  Eliakim  Twig  received 
from  the  Congregational  Council  then  holding  at 
Hatfield,  Conn.,  his  license  to  preach.  The  first 
person  to  whom  he  showed  it  was  Miss  Obedience 
Binney.  She  received  it  with  awed  and  trembling 
fingers.  She  had  always  had  faith  in  him  —  the 
kind  of  faith  that  a  thin  woman,  with  delicate  fea- 
tures and  a  Connecticut  -  Valley  bonnet,  gives  to  a 
man  with  loud  voice  and  broad  shoulders,  who  has 
lived  in  New  York  city  and  once  preached  near  Bos- 
ton. She  addressed  a  letter  to  him  the  next  week, 
when  he  went  to  East  Hartford,  as  the  Reverend  E. 
Twig,  for  which  the  recipient  rebuked  her  with  some 
decision,  reminding  her  that  the  sacred  ceremony  of 
ordination  must  precede  a  man's  claim  to  the  title 
which  she  so  ignorantly  handled.  Miss  Binney 
blushed  for  shame,  and  wrote  no  more,  till  at  least 
two  of  his  letters  had  lain  unanswered  for  some 
days. 

In  course  of  time,  however,  Eliakim  Twig  passed 
through  the  mysterious  process  which  converted  him 
from  a  plain  Mister  into  a  Reverend  expounder  of 
the  Word  of  God  to  the  less  highly-endowed  or  pre- 
sumably less  highly-sanctified  of  his  fellow-worms. 
Miss  Obedience  Binney  wondered  that  he  did  not 
immediately  receive  that  urgent  call  to  a  prosperous 


HIS  RELICT.  347 

and  important  parisli  whicli  she  had  been  led  to  sup- 
pose (she  really  could  not  remember  exactly  how), 
as  a  matter  of  course,  awaited  the  remarkable  man 
who  had  honored  her  with  what  he  called  his  "  affec- 
tion and  esteem,"  and  with  the  proposition  that  she 
should  eventually  share  the  privileges  and  minister 
to  the  needs  of  his  important  life.  Obedience  Bin- 
ney  (though  she  had  never  said  so,  which  would  not 
have  struck  her  as  maidenly)  was  ready  to  get  upon 
the  knees  of  her  soul  to  "  minister "  to  this  loud, 
long  man.  Of  her  own  life,  as  an  integer  in  their 
mutual  problem,  the  Reverend  Mr.  Twig  had  thought 
little,  and  she  less.  So  both  were  satisfied.  Obedi- 
ence, by  the  way,  was  rather  pretty  when  she  was 
young  and  happy.  Most  of  us,  to  be  sure,  can  be  as 
much  as  that,  under  those  two  conditions.  She, 
however,  had  a  good  complexion  (the  fair  one,  with 
the  delicate  flush,  that  loud  men  fancy)  and  excellent 
features,  as  I  said,  besides  a  fine  hand. 

The  Eeverend  Mr.  Twig  was  born  upon  a  Connect- 
icut tobacco-farm,  and,  having  a  soft-hearted  though 
loud-voiced  father,  had  received  that  high -school 
education  which,  for  reasons  never  fully  revealed  to 
an  inquiring  public,  comes  to  a  pause  at  the  end  of 
the  second  year.  The  young  man  turned  from  the 
cultivation  of  his  intellect  to  that  of  the  parental 
tobacco,  which  he  pursued  with  indifferent  anima- 
tion for  an  uncertain  number  of  years.  While  at 
school,  he  had,  unfortunately,  developed  what  was 
understood  in  Hatfield  to  be  elocutionary  talent,  and 
had  been  the  star  of  the  anniversary  exercises  upon 
several  occasions,  still  well  preserved  in  the  Hatfield 
memory.     A  popular  ballad  (delivered  a  good  deal 


348  HIS  RELICT. 

on  one  foot)  beginning  ''  Arroint  thee,  knave  !  "  was 
his  masterpiece,  unless  we  excei^t  Byron  in  the  "  Coli- 
seum," in  which,  especially  upon  the  line  embodying 
the  "  Owl's  ^o-ong  cry,"  he  was  said  to  excel  him- 
self. 

Haunted  during  the  obscure  tobacco  period  by  the 
recollection  of  these  intellectual  triumphs,  as  well  as 
by  the  stinging  consciousness  of  unusual  and  unem- 
ployed lung-power,  young  Mr.  Twig  was  not  without 
those  restless  surgings  of  the  spirit  toward  higher 
things  which,  when  we  find  them  in  superior  natures 
we  respect  and  stimulate,  while  in  the  commoner 
types,  where  they  are  infinitely  more  pathetic  and 
in  vastly  more  need  of  our  delicate  handling,  we 
gain  from  them  chiefly  food  for  our  sense  of  the 
ludicrous,  which  is  apt  to  be  the  most  cruel  of  our 
faculties ;  like  other  cruel  facts  in  the  economy  of 
the  universe,  perhaps  one  of  the  most  necessary. 

Influenced  possibly  by  these  unfulfilled  aspira- 
tions and  by  the  depression  which  aspiration  may 
produce  even  in  people  with  big  voices,  Eliakim 
Twig,  after  two  or  three  years  of  tobacco,  in  one  of 
the  annual  winter  revivals  which  chronically  visited 
the  Hatfield  church,  became  converted.  Unfortu- 
nately, he  developed  in  the  daily  meetings,  which 
were  the  chief  moral  and  social  excitement  of  Hat- 
field for  several  weeks,  what  was  known  as  a  ''  gift 
in  prayer."  His  voice  was  fatal  to  him,  if  not  to  the 
gospel  ministry,  which  he  immediately  decided  to 
enter.  He  went  to  New  York  (where  he  chanced  to 
have  a  forbearing  relative,  who  boarded  him  at  cost), 
and  entered  or  attempted  to  enter  the  Theological 
Seminary  in  that  city.     His  stay  was  short  and  was 


HIS  RELICT.  349 

understood  in  Hatfield  to  be  detrimental  to  his 
health.  He  abandoned  New  York  theology  as  he 
had  abandoned  Hatfield  tobacco,  and,  after  an  inter- 
val vaguely  supposed  to  be  spent  in  private  study, 
drifted  into  a  rural  seminary  in  Maine,  which  pro- 
vided what  was  known  as  an  "  extra  course "  for 
students  of  superabundant  zeal  and  deficient  educa- 
tion. It  is  easy  to  speak  of  these  things  lightly ; 
easier  than  to  remember  what  hard  and  heavy  facts 
they  represent. 

At  the  end  of  two  years,  the  young  man  was 
"graduated"  in  the  profound  and  sacred  science 
with  which  his  profession  deals,  and  turned  over  to 
the  Hatfield  Council,  as  we  said,  for  his  license  to 
carry  the  message  of  the  Eternal  God  to  blind  and 
busy  men.  It  might  have  been  worse.  The  embryo 
preacher  was  not  a  hypocrite  ;  he  was  only  an  honest, 
healthy,  vain  young  man,  with  a,  taste  for  declama- 
tion. We  all  know  such  cases,  and  we  know  now 
and  then  one  where  there  has  existed  a  personal 
surrender  to  the  service  of  the  modest  and  self-sub- 
duing Galilean  whom  these  youth  dare  to  represent, 
which  has  made  of  a  half-taught  but  wholly  conse- 
crated man  a  Christian  priest  of  whom  the  world 
and  the  glory  of  it  are  not  worthy. 

One  person  at  least  believed  Eliakim  Twig  to  be 
such  a  man,  and  that  Avas  Obedience  Binney  the  day 
he  married  her,  in  her  step-mother's  parlor,  in  the 
presence  of  a  large  number  of  Hatfield  church  mem- 
bers in  good  and  regular  standing,  and  of  family 
friends,  including  the  New  York  relative,  who  kept 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  his  eyes  on  the  bride,  and 
his  thoughts  to  himself.     Obedience  wore  a  white 


350  HIS  RELICT. 

muslin  goAvn,  shirred  at  the  waist,  with  full  sleeves 
and  a  white  satin  ribbon.  She  looked  exceedingly 
pretty,  in  spite  of  the  artificial  orange  blossom  in 
her  hair.  Her  young  face  had  the  rapturous  and 
fatal  feminine  trust.  Mr.  Twig  looked  as  if  he  were 
about  to  offer  prayer. 

It  was  in  December,  and  there  was  a  great  fire  in 
the  air-tight  stove  during  the  entire  ceremony.  Mrs. 
Binney  said  afterward  she  hoped  nobody  took  cold. 

They  married  upon  faith,  an  income  commonly 
supposed  sixty  years  ago  to  be  both  suitable  and 
sufficient  for  members  of  Mr.  Twig's  profession,  and 
they  proceeded  to  live  upon  their  income.  The  Eev- 
erend  Eliakim  Twig  did  not  as  yet  receive  that  press- 
ing call  to  that  important  church  for  which  his 
wife,  in  common  with  himself,  still  pathetically  sup- 
posed him  to  be  destined.  He  preached  at  odd  times 
and  in  odd  places.  Now  and  then  he  "  supplied  "  for 
a  few  months.  More  often  than  now  and  then  he 
"  candidated "  in  empty  and  critical  pulpits.  Mrs. 
Twig  acquired  a  sad  familiarity  with  these  profes- 
sional terms,  and  could  no  longer  be  accused  of  any 
technical  ignorance.  She  corrected  her  mother  for 
saying  that  Mr.  Twig  had  "  castigated  "  several  Con- 
necticut churches. 

The  young  couple  were  understood  to  be  tem- 
porarily boarding  at  the  bride's  mother's,  a  phrase 
which  contained  no  reflection  upon  the  present  and 
much  promise  for  the  future,  and  was  adopted  Avith 
a  readiness  creditable  to  Hatfield  society.  For  the 
brief  and  blessed  interval  that  fate  allows  to  many 
not  joyous  lives,  Obedience  had  happiness.  Her 
gentle,  unassertant  nature  was  not  critical  of  com- 


HIS  RELICT.  351 

fort.  She  passed  through  her  first  iUusions  brightly, 
and  met  her  first  disenchantments  in  silence.  When 
her  husband  lost  his  temper  because  his  boots  ^vere 
muddy,  she  said :  "  I  '11  black  them,  dear."  (De 
mortuis  nil  —  history  does  not  compel  me  to  state 
whether  he  let  her  do  it.)  Perhaps  the  most  aston- 
ishing discovery  of  her  married  life  was  that  Mr. 
Twig  found  it  so  hard  to  bear  a  toothache.  His 
ability  to  take  all  the  cream  without  asking  her  if 
she  had  any  did  not  shock  her;  she  considered 
cream  one  of  his  marital  rights.  The  first  time  he 
was  cross  to  her,  she  cried  a  little ;  but  she  shut  her- 
self into  her  own  room  to  do  it,  and  carefully  removed 
all  traces  of  the  tears  before  she  went  to  supper. 
The  second  time  she  did  not  even  cry.  Mr.  Twig 
had  just  returned  from  candidating  (she  had  begun 
to  experience  nervous  chills  at  the  sound  of  the 
word,  especially  when  it  was  distinctly  pronounced 
and  the  second  syllable  not  slurred  over ;  there 
seemed  to  be  degrees  of  moral  emphasis  in  the  use 
of  it).  Mr.  Twig  had  been  candidating  in  East  Hart- 
ford, and  she  said  :  "  Poor  fellow  !  " 

East  Hartford  did  not  want  him.  That  important 
place  "  near  Boston  "  did  not  invite  him.  There  was 
a  vacant  pulpit  in  Massachusetts  which  had  been  for 
five  years  unable  to  agree  upon  a  pastor,  and  which,  it 
was  estimated,  had  pronounced  against  one  hundred 
and  seventeen  presumptuous  young  men.  It  was  a 
parish  of  about  sixty  families,  and  offered  a  salary  of 
six  hundred  dollars  to  the  fortunate  applicant.  The- 
ological seminaries  and  clerical  exchanges  had  grown 
shy  of  that  pulpit,  and  it  was  thought  that  Mr.  Twig 
would  have  received  a  call.     He  did,  indeed,  make 


35-2  HIS  RELICT. 

the  impression  of  being  a  man  of  talent,  and  the 
vote  in  his  favor  was  considerable,  it  being  urged 
by  an  infli;ential  deacon  that  "we  might  go  fur- 
ther and  far'  wus ;  "  and  suggested  that  for  a  gift 
at  reading  funeral  hymns,  more  especially  "  Why  do 
we  mourn  ?  "  and  "  Sister  thou  wast,"  it  would  not 
be  easy  to  find  his  superior.  The  women  of  the 
parish  were  largely,  though  not  unanimously,  in  his 
interest ;  but,  as  they  had  no  votes,  constituted 
three  fourths  of  the  church  members,  and  had  paid 
off  the  society's  debt  by  laborious  doughnuts  and 
persistent  pincushions,  their  opinions  were  not  con- 
sulted. Mr.  Twig  was  invited  to  supply  for  six  Sun- 
days, and  even  the  gentle  Obedience  wondered  at 
the  result  and  went  the  daring  length  in  skepticism 
of  admitting  to  herself  that  the  ways  of  Providence 
were  mysterious.  But  to  her  husband  she  only  said: 
"  Never  mind,  dear.  They  are  a  people  who  could 
not  appreciate  you  !  "  and  timidly  stroked  his  coarse 
black  hair  with  her  fine  hand.  When  his  gloomy 
features  relaxed,  and  he  took  her  face  upon  those  big 
shoulders,  and  said  she  was  a  good  wife,  she  could 
not  have  been  much  happier  if  he  had  candidated 
successfully  in  the  Golden  City,  and  she  had  sat  in 
the  front  pew  of  the  Church  Triumphant,  watching 
the  enraptured  faces  of  the  influential  archangels 
who  were  to  pronounce  upon  the  celestial  call. 

The  Eeverend  Mr.  Twig  had  that  unintelligent 
pride  and  obstinacy  which  often  characterize  people 
who  have  nothing  to  live  on,  and  he  refused  the 
Massachusetts  supply.  Preaching  was  scarce,  just 
then,  and  it  went  rather  hard  with  them,  especially 
as    the   young  clergyman's    step-mother-in-law  hap- 


HIS  BELICT.  353 

pened  to  die  about  that  time  and  threw  them  out  of 
a  boarding -place.  Old  Mr.  Twig  offered  them  a 
home  for  an  uncertain  time,  to  be  sure  ;  but  he  had 
a  shrewd  Yankee  mortification  in  his  son,  which  he 
found  it  difficult  to  conceal,  and  he  offended  Elia- 
kim  by  suggesting  that  he  turn  to  at  the  tobacco 
again. 

"  I  don't  see  what  it  is  about  'Likim,"  the  old  man 
said  to  Obedience.  "  I  Ve  taken  some  pains  to  find 
out  why  he  ain't  successful  in  his  trade.  I  spent  a 
sight  on  his  learnin',  and  Mis'  Binney,  she 's  boarded 
him  "how  two  year.  He's  got  learnin'  and  he's  got 
lungs.  What  more  dooz  a  man  want  to  run  a  pulpit  ? 
I  inquired  of  a  man  that  knew  another  man  that 
come  from  East  Hartford,  and  he  said  the  East  Hart- 
ford folks  had  n't  no  sort  of  objections  to  'Likim. 
He  was  pioiis,  and  he  read  the  impertory  psalms  as 
never  was  by  no  minister  in  that  pulpit ;  but  he  said 
their  old  deacon  said  all  the  young  man  wanted  was 
a  few  idees.  I  told  'Likim  that,  for  I  thought,  if 
that  was  all,  he  'd  ought  to  know  it  and  lay  in  a  sup- 
ply ekal  to  the  demand.  It 's  common  business 
sense.  Just  lay  in  a  supply  ekal  to  the  demand.  I 
allers  did  with  my  tobacco." 

But  old  Mr.  Twig,  in  the  evening  of  a  life  severely 
consecrated  to  that  elevating  vegetable,  had  secretly 
slipped  into  one  of  those  fatal  lapses  to  which  long- 
sustained  virtue  is  pitiably  liable,  and,  unknown  to 
his  family  or  his  deacons,  had  speculated  in  the  then 
popular  stock  of  the  Consolidated  Dare  and  Doubtful 
and  Widow's  Mite  Railways.  Hence,  when  he  like- 
wise was  soon  afterward  removed,  on  a  calm  autumn 
morning,  from  the  garnering  of  tobacco  to  that  of 


364  HIS  RELICT. 

amaranth  and  asphodel,  whatever  may  have  been 
said  by  the  angels  in  Heaven,  it  was  forced  upon  the 
executors  on  earth  to  announce  that  the  Dare  and 
Doubtful  and  the  Widow's  Mite  had  swallowed  and 
digested  the  estate,  and  that  there  remained  to  the 
only  son  and  heir  three  hundred  and  twelve  dollars, 
and  a  set  of  "Barnes's  Notes." 

"  Never  mind,  dear,"  said  Obedience.  "  He  was  a 
kind  father,  and  he  educated  you  for  the  Christian 
ministry." 

Now  the  current  swerved  a  little,  soon  after  this, 
as  it  will  with  the  most  unlucky  of  us,  and  the  "Rev- 
erend Mr.  Twig,  after  nearly  three  years  of  that  kind 
of  probation  Avhich  quenches  the  light  out  of  women's 
eyes  and  wrings  the  good  temper  out  of  men's  hearts, 
received  a  call  to  become  the  pastor  of  a  parish  of 
uncertain  geographical  location  and  limited  histori- 
cal importance  in  the  State  of  Maine. 

He  was  inclined,  at  first,  to  refuse  the  invitation, 
on  the  ground  of  the  insufficient  importance  of  the 
position ;  he  had  of  late  been  in  correspondence  with 
a  seminary  classmate,  who  had  declined  five  calls,  in 
the  belief  that  the  Lord  intended  him  for  a  larger 
type  of  usefulness  ;  but  the  plain  good  sense  of  Mrs. 
Twig,  for  once  in  her  gentle  life,  uprose  and  claimed 
a  hearing.  She  carried  her  point  and  settled  her 
minister.  They  had  four  hundred  dollars  and  a  par- 
sonage ;  and  ah  !  they  had,  at  last,  a  joarish,  a  posi- 
tion, and  a  justification  for  existence.  Obedience 
Awnt  the  length  in  extravagance  of  new  gray  bonnet- 
strings  (satin,  with  a  pink  sprig)  at  the  installation, 
and  at  the  first  Sunday -morning  service  in  their  own 
church,  hid  beneath  her  beaver  poke  those  tears  of 


HIS  BELICT.  355 

tenderness  and  tremulous  hope  which  a  sweet- 
hearted  woman  can  wring  out  of  the  most  barren 
contingencies^ of  life.  She  held  up  her  head  with  a 
beautiful  motion  when  she  waited  for  her  husband  to 
lead  her  down  the  aisle,  to  introduce  her  to  the  pres- 
ident of  the  sewing-society.  To  the  end  of  her  days 
she  spoke  with  a  pathetic  pride  of  "our  people." 
Mr.  Twig  remained  in  that  parish  (East  Economy 
was  the  name  of  it)  for  three  years  and  a  half. 

It  is  not  within  the  scope  of  these  brief  records  to 
follow  the  Eeverend  Mr.  Twig  through  the  details  of 
his  professional  career ;  but  his  wife,  we  must  re- 
member, had  to.  Life  to  her  was  one  dread  attend- 
ance upon  the  moods,  and  dependence  upon  the 
mercy,  of  church  committees.  Between  the  apathy 
of  parishes  and  the  undoubted  superiority  of  Mr. 
Twig's  gifts,  her  unspeculative  soul  vibrated  with 
piteous  helplessness.  When  he  was  in  search  of  a 
pulpit,  she  trusted  the  Lord,  and  fiercely  adored  her 
husband.  When  he  had  one,  she  felt  that  the  world 
was  more  appreciative  than  she  had  given  it  credit 
for ;  but  kept  one  eye  on  the  senior  deacon,  to  see 
how  the  long  prayer  struck  him.  When  Mr.  Twig 
became  a  traveling  agent  for  a  denominational  so- 
ciety, she  perceived  that  now,  for  the  first  time,  he 
had  found  the  right  field  for  his  talents,  and  in  her 
secret  soul  gave  thanks  that  the  day  of  deacons  was 
over.  When  the  society  no  longer  required  his  ser- 
vices, she  made  him  an  omelette  for  supper,  and  did 
all  her  crying  after  he  was  asleep.  When  he  taught 
classes  in  elocution,  she  experienced  a  rising  tide  of 
admiration  for  him.  When  he  assisted  in  editing  a 
religious  paper,  she  stood  in  awe  of  him.     When  he 


356  HIS  RELICT. 

wrote  a  book  on  Samuel  Hopkins,  she  taught  an  in- 
fant -  school,  to  help  him.  When  the  book  failed  to 
find  a  publisher,  she  took  boarders  to  support  him. 
When  he  started  out  as  an  evangelist,  she  stayed  at 
home  and  prayed  for  him.     Thus  life  dealt  with  her. 

The  gray  was  heavy  in  her  hair  and  the  fire  low  in 
her  heart  when  their  first  and  only  child  was  born  to 
them.  They  had  been  married  fifteen  years,  and  the 
baby  took  by  surprise  a  struggling  and  dejected  home. 
To  the  father  he  was  a  phenomenon,  to  be  regarded 
alternately  with  a  certain  inevitable  stirring  at  the 
heart-strings,  or  with  a  sense  of  extreme  personal  in- 
convenience. For  the  mother,  he  added  another  to 
the  terribly  unquestioning  devotions,  raptures,  and 
agonies  of  her  life.  When  her  husband  was  irritable 
she  kissed  her  child.  When  she  went  Avithout  meat, 
to  save  seventeen  cents  a  week  to  buy  the  boy  shoes, 
she  thought  less  about  Mr.  Twig's  misfortunes. 

The  boy  grew  fast,  and  did  not,  even  his  mother 
acknowledged,  early  develop  a  spiritual  tempera- 
ment. He  was  a  big,  hearty,  rollicking  fellow,  who 
stamped  through  all  his  boots  before  there  were  any 
more,  even  after  she  had  given  up  eggs  and  cut 
down  her  tea.  He  had  curly  hair  and  did  not  like 
his  father.  He  objected  to  being  punished  for  whis- 
tling at  prayers  when  Mr.  Twig  read  the  chapter  re- 
cording the  murder  of  the  priests  of  Baal  by  Jehu  on 
Christmas  Eve.  The  boy  expressed  bitter  disloyalty 
to  the  professional  environment  of  the  family,  and 
many  unfilial  intentions  to  see  ''  a  world  that  was  n't 
pious  ; "  and  one  New  Year's  night,  he  being  then 
thirteen  and  a  handsome  fellow,  more  full  of  vigor 
than  conscious  of  tenderness,  his  mother  missed  him. 


HIS   RELICT.  357 

and  the  child  of  prayer  and  patience,  like  any  off- 
spring of  neglect  and  vice,  turned  his  soul  from  her 
Avho  bore  him,  and  vanished  in  the  mighty  world. 

Obedience  Twig  aged  fast  after  this  befell  her  ; 
and  when,  while  still  in  the  prime  of  life,  and  look- 
ing much  younger  than  herself,  her  husband,  too, 
disappeared  into  that  mightier  world  whose  mysteri- 
ous relation  to  this  he  had  undertaken  to  interpret 
to  men  of  less  vocal  gift,  and  perhaps  of  less  real 
loftiness  of  purpose,  but  alas!  of  more  common 
sense  —  when  Mr.  Twig  had  pneumonia  and  died,  like 
any  common  man.  Obedience  for  a  time  confidently 
expected  to  follow  him  quite  soon.  He  had  a  brief 
illness — it  seemed  mysterious  that  he  could  give 
way  at  the  lungs,  after  all ;  and  he  was  very  gentle 
and  patient,  and  told  Mrs.  Twig  that  the  Lord  would 
provide,  and  that  she  had  been  a  good  wife.  In  one 
of  his  delirious  moments  he  said  that  perhaps  he 
had  better  have  stuck  to  the  tobacco  ;  but  he  passed 
aAvay,  repeating  sonorously  a  biblical  quotation,  and 
when  Obedience  passionately  cried :  "  Mr.  Twig  ! 
Mr.  Twig  !  Speak  to  me  once  more  !  Eliakim  !  " 
he  put  his  hand  upon  his  wife's  head,  and  finished 
the  most  beautiful  of  all  apostolic  benedictions : 
"  The  Lord  cause  His  face  to  shine  upon  thee  and 
give  thee  jpeaceP  And  so,  like  wiser  men,  Mr.  Twig 
took  upon  himself  the  dignity  of  death. 

At  first,  as  I  say,  his  wife  expected  to  follow  him. 
That  physical  death  Avhich  hid  under  the  snow  and 
frozen  sod  seemed  a  far  less  palpable  fact  than  the 
moral  disintegration  of  her  personality.  Her  meek 
little  pinched  face  looked  like  a  lamp  that  was  going 
out.     What  remained  for  a  woman  who  had  been  the 


358  Ills  RELICT. 

Avife  of  the  Reverend  Eliakim  Twig  ?  She  looked 
at  his  gray  slate  tombstone  enviously,  dreaming  of 
the  day  when  she,  like  other  '•'  relicts  "  in  Hatfield 
churchyard,  should  rest  from  her  labors  beside  her 
lord.  She  was  worn  out,  poor  soul.  There  was,  in- 
deed, very  little  of  her  left  over,  after  Mr.  Twig's 
abundant  voice  had,  for  the  first  known  occasion  in 
his  life,  faltered  in  that  final  benediction. 

But  Obedience  Twig,  like  stronger  women,  learned 
that,  however  little  is  left  over  when  the  heart  is 
broken,  death  does  not  come  because  he  is  expected, 
still  less  because  he  is  desired.  The  smoking  flax 
burns  long,  and  the  bruised  reed,  because  the  first  to 
bend,  may  be  the  last  to  break. 

One  thing  was  left  to  her.  She  had  a  dignity  to 
maintain.  She  had  been  the  wife  of  Eliakim  Twig. 
When  people  asked  her  what  she  intended  to  do,  she 
gently  replied,  "  Something  suitable  will  open,"  and 
prayed  the  Lord  for  respectability  as  fervently  as 
she  ever  had  for  sanctification  or  .a  call.  She  fought 
for  it,  too,  in  the  mild,  unnoticed  way  in  which  such 
women  battle.  She  resumed  the  infant-school.  She 
gave  (may  Art  forgive  her  !)  lessons  upon  the  piano. 
She  embroidered,  and  kept  boarders.  She  trimmed 
bonnets,  and  sold  tatting.  She  had  no  near  relatives, 
and  when  one  of  Mr.  Twig's  cousins  in  South  Hat- 
field invited  her  to  spend  Thanksgiving  and  half  of 
the  following  week,  she  declined.  For  ten  years  she 
kept  her  body,  if  not  her  soul,  alive.  She  was  then 
over  sixty  years  old,  and  it  grew  hard. 

It  grew  hard,  and  then  harder.  She  felt  compelled 
to  offer  her  services  as  a  housekeeper.  She  had 
never  heard  before  of  a  minister's  wife  advertising 


HIS  RELICT.  359 

for  such  a  position.  She  pictured  Mr.  Twig  as  de- 
claiming (chiefly  from  the  Book  of  Revelation)  to  a 
large  celestial  audience,  and  feeling  very  much 
ashamed  of  her.  The  position  proved  to  be  that  of 
what  is  called  a  working  housekeeper,  in  a  family  en- 
gaged in  some  business  obscurely  known  as  "  fish," 
in  a  cheap  seaport  town ;  and  the  old  lady  found  her- 
self virtually  the  servant  of  a  salt-cod  packer  and  his 
seven  noisy  children.  She  wondered  patiently  what 
any  of  the  people  in  East  Economy  would  have 
said  to  see  her  in  this  place  ;  and  when,  indeed,  one 
of  that  now  almost  mythical  community  happened  to 
find  her  there,  and  called  upon  her,  she  put  off  her 
cooking-apron  with  trembling  hands,  and  choked, 
blinded,  when  she  saw  the  man's  face,  for  pride  and 
shame.  "  I  am  very  comfortable,  Deacon  Bobley," 
she  sobbed.  "I  want  for  nothing.  I  have  a  very 
respectable  and  suitable  position.  I  have  prayed, 
night  and  morning,  for  twelve  years,  that  I  might 
be  kept  out  of  the  — put  of  the  —  that  I  might  be 
kept  from  a  dependence  upon  charity.  And  I  think 
the  Lord  will  hear  me.  Deacon  Bobley —  for  Mr. 
Twig's  sake,"  she  added,  unconscious  of  the  pa- 
thetic irreverence  of  those  four  words. 

As  she  grew  older  and  feebler,  her  sturdy  Ameri- 
can dread  of  becoming  an  object  of  public  charity 
deepened  to  a  horror.  No  one  in  her  presence  pro- 
nounced the  one  word  which  never  passed  her  own 
lips.  People  who  knew  her  turned  sharp  corners  in 
conversation  to  avoid  mention  of  an  alms-house  or  a 
pauper. 

This  was  more  noticeable  in  Screwsbury,  a  little 
town  in  Connecticut,  to  which    she  had  wandered, 


360  HIS  RELICT. 

after  having  a  slow  fever  at  the  salt-lish  packer's, 
and  receiving  her  notice  to  leave.  In  Screwsbury, 
she  took  a  tiny  room,  and  advertised  for  plain  sew- 
ing and  light  nursing,  and  here  for  a  time,  in  a  for- 
lorn way,  she  found  ease.  People  treated  her  civ- 
illy in  Screwsbury.  She  felt  that  they  understood 
that  she  had  been  a  clergyman's  wife.  She  had  a 
seat  in  the  minister's  pew,  till  his  boys  came  home 
from  college  and  filled  it.  He  Avas  an  excellent  min- 
ister, but  she  wished  he  could  have  heard  Mr.  Twig 
unite  in  prayer. 

It  was  in  Screwsbury  that  Mrs.  Twig  began  to  feel 
that  she  was  growing  old.  She  did  not  go  out,  except 
to  church  and  upon  her  business.  One  road  in  town 
she  carefully  avoided.  It  led  to  the  Screwsbury 
poor-house.  It  was  said  that  she  had  never  seen  the 
place.  As  her  body  grew  feebler,  that  horror  grew 
stronger.     It  was  very  strong  in  Screwsbury. 

She  had  no  friend  or  old  neighbor  in  this  place, 
and  her  little  straits,  and  economies,  and  silences,  had 
the  sad  shield  of  age  and  obscurity.  Nobody  quite 
knew,  or  much  cared,  hoAV  poor  she  was,  until  fit 
after  fit  of  sickness  brought  her  condition  to  the 
knowledge  of  well-meaning  people,  who  gave  cur- 
rency to  that  little  notion  of  hers  about  the  poor- 
house,  and  so  drew  her  case  under  the  attention  of 
the  town  officers.  She  had  commanded  a  certain  re- 
spect in  Screwsbury,  from  her  tenderness  to  the  sick, 
and  the  uncomplaining  reserve,  called  Christian,  with 
which  she  withheld  her  own  sufferings  from  the  com- 
passion of  others.  What  should  Screwsbury  do  with 
her? 

"  I  cannot  go  to  the .     I  cannot  be  dependent 


HIS  BELICT.  361 

on  charity,"  she  said,  Avith  gentle  insistence.  "I 
shall  be  better  soon.  I  have  supportecL  myself  for 
twenty  years.     The  Lord  -will  provide.     You  must 

not  send  me  to  the  — .     It  would  not  be  suitable. 

I  am  a  minister's  wife.  My  husband  wan  the  Eever- 
end  Mr.  Twig." 

It  was  a  hard  case ;  but  what  could  Screwsbury 
do?  She  had  her  own  paupers,  and  invalids,  aud  de- 
cayed gentility  to  the  manor  born ;  but  Screwsbury 
found  herself  uncomfortable  to  leave  a  woman  of  sev- 
enty years  without  a  fire  in  March ;  and  to  let  her  die 
from  insufficient  food  and  attention,  because  she  in- 
sisted on  it,  was  asking  a  good  deal  even  of  Screws- 
bury. Cold,  and  hunger,  and  nakedness,  the  town 
auditor  could  understand  ;  but  for  that  starving  need 
called  delicate  feeling,  the  treasurer  had  made  no 
jDrovision.  Screwsbury  was  puzzled.  A  certain  sum 
was  raised,  and  the  old  lady  made  comfortable  in  a 
desultory  way  till  spring.  In  the  summer,  she  sewed 
a  little,  and  a  little  more  was  collected  in  the  irregu- 
lar manner  known  to  village  charity.  Xobody  was 
responsible  for  her,  and  when  the  weatlier  chilled 
again,  with  the  chill  of  her  seventy  -  first  autumn, 
Screwsbury  shook  its  head. 

On  a  sharp  October  day,  a  man  not  personally 
known  to  Mrs.  Twig,  called  upon  her,  with  a  couple 
of  ladies  who  had  sent  her  cranberry  jelly,  and  ex- 
plained to  her  that,  owing  to  her  feeble  condition,  it 
had  been  thought  best  by  her  friends  in  that  town  to 
remove  her  to  a  boarding-place,  where  she  would  re- 
ceive every  care  and  attention,  and  that  arrange- 
ments had  been  made  to  that  effect.  He  added  that 
he  would  take  her  to  this  good  place  to-morrow,  and 


362  HIS  RELICT. 

one  of  the  ladies  at  this  point  produced  a  new  jar  of 
jelly,  and  ^aid  it  would  be  an  excellent  thing ;  but 
the  other  one  brought  her  a  meat-pie,  and  said 
nothing. 

"  Did  yoii  say  it  was  a  boardincf-^lsice  ?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Twig,  after  a  painful  silence, 

"  Yes,  marm,  I  —  did,"  replied  the  man. 

*'  Who  pays  my  board  ?  " 

"  Why,  some  ladies  and  gentlemen  that  live  here. 
We  think,  marm,  you  will  be  more  comfortable." 

Mrs.  Twig  looked  at  the  lady  with  the  meat-pie, 
but  she  had  turned  her  back.  The  jelly  lady  said  it 
would  be  a  very  comfortable  home.  Mrs.  Twig' 
lifted  her  faded  eyes  with  the  fatal  feminine  trust 
that  life  had  not  drowned  out  of  them,  and  simply 
said :  — 

"  You  have  been  good  to  me.  I  do  not  think  you 
would  deceive  me.  I  will  go  to  this  boarding-place, 
and  I  thank  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  who  have  been 
so  kind." 

She  was  very  feeble  the  next  day ;  but  she  bravely 
got  herself  into  her  best  clothes  and  rode  away  with 
the  excellent  man  and  the  jelly  lady.  The  lady  who 
brought  the  meat-pie  did  not  return  to  see  her  off, 
and  Mrs.  Twig  sent  her  love  to  her,  and  said  how 
tender  the  crust  was.  It  was  dusk  when  they  called 
for  her,  and  her  eyes  were  a  little  blind  with  the 
scanty  tears  of  age.  She  felt  that  the  Screwsbury 
neighbors  were  kind,  but  she  wished  it  had  been  some 
of  "  our  people  "  down  at  East  Economy,  to  whom 
she  might  have  been  thus  indebted  —  some  of  the 
ladies  in  the  parish  who  said  she  was  the  most 
spiritual  minister's  wife    they  ever   had,  or  one  of 


HIS  RELICT.  363 

those  sweet  Sunday-school  girls  who  used  to  kiss 
her.  She  thought  a  good  deal  about  the  people  as 
she  rode  to  her  boarding-house  ;  but  she  said  nothing 
of  her  thoughts,  and  thanked  everybody,  and  was 
very  docile  and  feeble,  and  went  at  once  to  bed,  only 
calling  the  jelly  lady  back,  to  say  :  — 

"  I  could  not  have  gone  to  the .  I  am  a  min- 
ister's wife.  It  would  not  have  been  proper.  I 
thank  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  for  this  kind  home." 

She  seemed  contented,  they  said,  and  slept  peace- 
fully that  night. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  "  —  began  the  superintend- 
ent, when  the  selectman  came  down-stairs. 

"  Yes,  I  mean  to  say  just  that.  She  don't  know 
where  she  is.  She  would  have  froze  in  the  street 
first.  Seventy-one  years  old  and  nigh  used  up,  and 
a  little  woman  without  much  voice ;  but,  I  can  tell 
you,  she  'd  have  done  it,  she  'd  have  froze  stiff  as  a 
pipe-stem,  if  she  had  known.     She's  that  grit." 

''  It  seems  a  pity,"  observed  the  alms-house  super- 
intendent. 

"  Wall,  it  dooz,"  admitted  the  selectman. 

"But  we'd  collected  a  good  while,"  said  the  lady 
who  made  jelly. 

"  You  say  she  don't  know  ?  "  repeated  the  superin- 
tendent. 

"  I  wish  she  need  n't,"  suggested  the  lady.  "  I 
might  go  on  sending  her  jelly,  to  make  it  natural." 

"  By  George,  I  wish  so  too,"  said  the  selectman. 
"  I  told  you  t'  other  day  the  women  said  so ;  but  I 
told  'em  it  warn't  possible." 

"  A  great  deal  is  possible  in  my  alms-house,"  said 
the  superintendent,  drawing  himself  up.  "  She  never 
shall:' 


304  HIS  RELICT. 

The  selectman  shrugged  his  shoulders,  but  the 
women  believed  ;  and  the  one  who  made  jellj^  sent 
the  superintendent  a  Christmas  card,  upon  which  a 
red  angel  j^racticed  gymnastics  in  a  loop  of  blue 
roses,  and  seemed  to  have  missed  his  footing  and 
come  down  hard. 

If  it  were  not  true,  it  would  be  so  preposterous  a 
thing  to  originate  that  I  might  possibly  expect  to  be 
believed ;  but,  as  it  is  no  fiction,  probably  the  fact 
will  go  hard  with  the  reader.  Nevertheless,  a  fact 
it  is  that  she  never  did. 

The  poor  old  lady  lived  on  to  the  end  in  touching 
gratitude  to  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  Screwsbury 
who  had  provided  her  with  such  a  pleasant  boarding- 
place.  No  person  undeceived  her.  She  became  bed- 
ridden, and  failed  fast.  They  gave  her  a  position  of 
consideration  in  a  small  ward,  and  her  nearest  room- 
mate was  deaf  and  dumb.  The  others  regarded  her 
with  interest,  and  spoke  to  her  with  caution.  They 
acqiiired  a  certain  skill  and  pleasure  in  deterring  the 
old  lady  from  the  consciousness  of  their  common 
fate.  It  became  the  pride  of  the  institution  to  pre- 
serve her  in  this  merciful  delusion.  Many  ludicrous 
and  touching  instances  are  related  of  the  efforts  of 
these  hapless  beings  to  heighten  her  sense  of  her 
own  privilege  and  of  that  precious  self-respect  for 
which  she  had  fought  so  long.  They  did  the  thing. 
The  Screwsbury  paupers  had  that  delicacy.  She 
never  knew. 

But,  as  I  said,  she  failed  fast  in  her  excellent 
boarding-place,  and  on  Christmas  week  she  wandered 
a  little,  and  talked  a  good  deal  aboiit  Mr.  Twig,  and 
now  and  then  her  boy.     But  only  the  deaf-mute  was 


HIS  RELICT.  365 

near  at  hand.  She  was  a  big  woman  and  gentle,  and 
Mrs.  Twig  liked  her  for  a  nurse.  "  I  am  a  minister's 
wife,"  said  Mrs.  Twig.  '•  I  prayed  night  and  morn- 
ing for  twelve  years  that  I  should  never  go  to  the 
poor-house.  I  always  knew  the  Lord  would  hear  that 
prayer." 

The  deaf  mute  nodded. 

"  This  is  a  very  pleasant  boarding-place,"  said  Mrs. 
Twig.  "  It  would  gratify  my  husband.  My  husband 
was  the  Eeverend  Mr.  Twig." 

On  New  Year's  Eve  she  seemed  so  weak  that  the 
superintendent,  who  had  a  message  for  her,  hesitated 
at  the  door ;  but  came  in  at  length  and  said  that 
there  was  a  caller  foi:  her,  and  would  she  see  the 
gentleman  ? 

"  It  may  be  some  of  our  people,"  said  Mrs.  Twig 
faintly.  "Ask  the  deaf  lady  to  find  me  my  best 
cap.     Maybe  it  is  Deacon  Bobley." 

But  when  the  gentleman  came  in,  it  was  not  Dea- 
con Bobley.  She  gathered  herself,  and  seemed  in  a 
kind  of  terror  for  a  moment,  to  retreat  from  him ; 
but  against  the  thin  little  alms-house  pillows  she  lay 
at  bay.  The  gentleman  came  softly  up  and  leaned 
above  her ;  but  no  one  spoke,  until,  in  low,  awed 
tones,  that  penetrated  the  silent  ward,  she  said : 
"  A7-e  you  Mr.  Twig  ?     Am  I  dead  already  ?  " 

"  Oh,  mother,  no  !     Thank  God  ! " 

She  threw  out  her  slender,  shrunken  hands,  and 
gasped,  and  he  held  her  to  the  air,  daring  neither  to 
speak  nor  to  be  mute,  and  praying,  perhaps,  that  he 
might  not  have  killed  her  —  the  first  prayer  of  eigh- 
teen wandering  years.  He  was  a  big,  handsome 
fellow,  and  his  face  bore  the  marks  of  a  reckless 


366  HIS  RELICT. 

life  ;  yet  there  was  a  certain  touching  likeness  be- 
tween the  two.  The  paupers  talked  of  it  for  many  a 
day. 

"  I  had  a  little  boy,"  said  the  old  lady  drearily. 
''  He  wore  jackets  and  a  round  cap.  His  name  was 
'Likim.  He  was  named  for  his  father.  His  father 
was  the  Reverend  Mr.  Twig.  He  was  a  minister's 
son.  He  had  a  respectable  home.  He  used  to  see77i 
to  love  his  mother." 

The  prodigal  hid  his  face  and  groaned.  The  sound 
seemed  to  arouse  her,  and  perhaps  to  clarify  thoughts 
which  she  had  no  strength  to  express.  She  regarded 
him  long  and  steadily,  and  at  last  she  said  :  "  It  is 
very  kind  in  you,  my  son,  to  come  and  see  me." 

Then  the  young  man  cried,  it  has  been  said,  with 
an  exceeding  great  and  bitter  cry  :  "  Mother,  you  '11 
kill  me  !  "  And,  brokenly  protesting  that  he  was  bad 
enough,  God  knew,  but  not  so  black  as  he  seemed, 
tried  to  make  her  understand  some  story  that  he  had 
to  tell,  about  believing  she  was  dead. 

"  I  read  it  in  a  Connecticut  paper  (I  was  in  Idaho) 
—  Mrs.  Obedience  Twig.  I  thought  it  must  be  you. 
I  thought  there  was  nothing  to  come  back  for.  I 
didn't  care  for  father.  He  and  I  never  got  on. 
Mother,  can't  you  live  a  little  while  ?  "  and  so  on, 
piteously  enough. 

"  Was  it  the  Reverend  Mrs.  Obedience  Twig  ?  " 
asked  the  old  lady  distinctly.  "  It  would  have  been 
the  Eeverend  Mrs.  Twig,"  she  added,  and  sank  away 
into  a  kind  of  faint. 

When  she  came  to  herself  again,  she  seemed  to 
have  accepted  both  her  shock  and  her  joy  in  a  beau- 
tiful and  placid  manner.     She  held  his  hand,  and 


HIS  RELICT.  367 

called  him  little  'Likim,  and  thanked  him  when  he 
kissed  her,  and  asked  him  what  he  Avas  crying  for. 
She  said  she  felt  much  better,  and  that  to-morrow 
she  would  tell  him  what  a  pleasant  boarding-place 
she  had. 

"  We  will  go  away  to-morrow,"  urged  the  young 
man.     "I  will  find  you  a  better  place." 

But  the  superintendent  in  the  doorway  motioned, 
putting  a  finger  on  his  lips. 

"  It  is  a  very  pleasant  place,"  said  Mrs.  T^vig. 
"  The  ladies  and  gentlemen  were  very  kind.     I  was 

afraid  I  should  come  to  the .     That  would  have 

—  mortified — you.  I  knew  that  prayer  would  be 
ansAvered.  I  'm  very  glad  to  see  you,  'Likim,  in  my 
boarding-house." 

But  after  this,  she  talked  no  more  for  a  long  time. 
Only  now  and  then  she  called  him  her  dear  son, 
and  patted  him  upon  the  head,  and  said  she  was 
glad  he  had  come  to  see  her,  and  that  he  loved  his 
mother. 

Toward  midnight  she  turned,  and  asked  for  the 
deaf  lady,  saying  that  she  wanted  to  kiss  her,  which 
she  did  Avith  a  gratitude  and  tenderness  moving  to 
see. 

After  this,  she  asked  for  a  pencil  and  paper,  and 
laboriously  wrote  for  some  time.  When  she  had 
written,  she  gave  the  paper  to  her  son,  explaining  to 
him  that  it  contained  the  inscription  upon  Mr. 
Twig's  slate  tombstone,  and  that  which  she  desired 
to  have  added. 

"If  it  doesn't  cost  too  much,"  she  said  timidly. 
"  If  you  can  afford  it  just  as  well  as  not,  I  should 
like  it  all  put  on.     The  engraver  asked  so  much  a 


368  ins  RELICT. 

letter,  when  your  father  died  ;  we  had  to  do  the  best 
we  could.  Have  you  got  a  little  ready  money, 
'Likim  ?  " 

"  A  little,  mother." 

"  And  you  're  sure  you  won't  mind  the  expense  of 
it,  my  son  ?  It  would  be  a  comfort  to  me ;  but  I 
would  n't  like  to  put  you  to  expense." 

But  with  that,  for  she  saw  how  moved  he  was,  she 
stroked  his  hair  again  and  said :  — 

"  There,  there,  my  son.  Never  mind,  dear  !  "  — 
just  as  she  used  to  speak  to  his  father,  after  candi- 
dating ;  and  so  said  nothing  after  this  again ;  and 
the  deaf  -  mute  cried ;  but  the  superintendent  went 
downstairs. 

By  and  by  the  young  man  read  what  was  written 
on  the  wet  and  crumpled  paper  that  he  had  been 
crushing  in  his  hands :  — 

"  Here  lies  the  body  of 

The  Reverend 

Eliakim  Twig, 

Who  died  in  the  hope  of  a  bles*  Resurreetio"." 

Then  followed  a  date,  and  after  that  the  addenda 
for  which  the  engraver  had  charged  too  much  :  — 

"  An  earnest  Preacher.  . 

A  devout  Man. 

A  devoted  Husband. 

Of  such  is  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven." 

"  Here  lies  the  body  of 

Obedience, 

Relict  of  the  Reverend 

Eliakim  Twig 

And  mother  of  ." 

A  space  was  left  here   for  the    young  man's  own 


HIS  RELICT.  369 

name,  and  for  the  date  and  circumstances  of  his 
death.  Under  this  blank,  her  trembling  hand  had 
scrawled  :  — 

"A  Kind  and  Affectionate  Son. 
A  Credit  to 
Hia  Godly  Father,  and 
The  World." 


MAKY  ELIZABETH. 

HER  TRUE  STORY. 

Mart  Elizabeth  was  a  little  girl  with  a  long 
name.  She  was  poor,  she  was  sick,  she  was  ragged, 
she  was  dirty,  she  was  cold,  she  was  hungry,  she 
was  frightened.  She  had  no  home,  she  had  no 
mother,  she  had  no  father.  She  had  no  supper,  she 
had  had  no  dinner,  she  had  had  no  breakfast.  She 
had  no  place  to  go,  and  nobody  to  care  whether  she 
went  or  not.  In  fact,  Mary  Elizabeth  had  not  much 
of  anything  but  a  short  pink  calico  dress,  a  little  red 
cotton-and-wool  shawl,  and  her  long  name.  Besides 
this,  she  had  a  pair  of  old  rubbers,  too  large  for  her. 
Tlie}^  flopped  on  the  pavement  as  she  walked. 

She  was  walking  up  Washington  Street  in  Boston. 
It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  of  a  bitter  January  day. 
Already  the  lamplighters  were  coming  with  their 
long  poles,  and  gas-lights'  began  to  flash  upon  the 
grayness  —  neither  day  nor  night  —  through  which 
the  child  Avatched  the  people  moving  dimly,  with  a 
wonder  in  her  heart.  This  wonder  was  as  confused 
as  the  half-light  in  which  the  crowd  hurried  by. 

"  God  made  so  many  people,"  thought  Mary  Eliz- 
abeth, "  he  must  have  made  so  many  suppers. 
Seems  as  if  there  'd  ought  to  been  one  for  one  extry 
little  girl." 

But  she  thought  this  in  a  gentle  wav.     She  was  a 


MARY  ELIZABETH.  371 

very  gentle  little  girl.  All  girls  who  hadn't  any- 
thing were  not  like  Mary  Elizabeth.  She  roomed 
with  a  girl  out  toward  Charlestown  who  was  differ- 
ent. That  girl's  name  was  Jo.  They  slejot  in  a  box 
that  an  Irish  woman  let  them  have  in  an  old  shed. 
The  shed  was  too  cold  for  her  cow,  and  she  could  n't 
use  it ;  so  she  told  Jo  and  Mary  Elizabeth  that  they 
might  have  it  as  well  as  not.  Mary  Elizabeth 
thought  her  very  kind.  There  was  this  difference 
between  Jo  and  Mary  Elizabeth  :  when  Jo  was  hun- 
gry, she  stole  ;  when  Mary  Elizabeth  was  hungry, 
she  begged. 

On  the  night  of  which  I  speak,  she  begged  hard. 
It  is  very  wrong  to  beg,  we  all  know.  It  is  wrong 
to  give  to  beggars,  we  all  know,  too ;  we  have  been 
told  so  a  great  many  times.  Still,  if  I  had  been  as 
hungry  as  Mary  Elizabeth,  I  presume  I  should  have 
begged,  too.  Whether  I  should  have  given  her  any- 
thing if  I  had  been  on  Washington  Street  that  Janu- 
ary night,  how  can  I  tell  ? 

At  any  rate,  nobody  did.  Some  told  her  to  go  to 
the  Orphans'  Hom3.  Some  said  :  "  Ask  the  police." 
Some  people  shook  their  heads,  and  more  people  did 
nothing  at  all.  One  lady  told  her  to  go  to  the 
St.  Priscilla  and  Aquila  Society,  and  Mary  Elizabeth 
said :  "  Thank  you,  ma'am,"  politely.  She  had 
never  heard  of  Aquila  and  Priscilla.  She  thought 
they  must  be  policemen.  Another  lady  bade  her  go 
to  an  Office  and  be  Eegistered,  and  Mary  Elizabeth 
said :  "  Ma'am  ?  " 

So  now  she  was  shuffling  up  Washington  Street, 
—  I  might  say  flopping  up  Washington  Street, — 
not  knowing  exactly  what  to  do  next ;  peeping  into 


372  MARY  ELIZABETH. 

people's  faces,  timidly  looking  away  from  them ; 
hesitating  ;  heart-sick,  —  for  a  very  little  girl  can 
be  very  heart-sick,  —  colder,  she  thought,  every  min- 
ute, and  hungrier  each  hour  than  she  was  the  hour 
before. 

The  child  left  Washington  Street  at  last,  where 
everybody  had  homes  and  suppers  without  one  extra 
one  to  spare  for  a  little  girl,  and  turned  into  a  short, 
bright,  showy  street,  where  stood  a  great  hotel. 
Everybody  in  Boston  knows,  and  a  great  many  peo- 
ple out  of  Boston  know,  that  hotel ;  in  fact,  they 
know  it  so  well  that  I  will  not  mention  the  name  of 
it,  because  it  was  against  the  rules  of  the  house  for 
beggars  to  be  admitted,  and  perhaps  the  proprietor 
would  not  like  it  if  I  told  how  this  one  especial  lit- 
tle beggar  got  into  his  well-conducted  house.  In- 
deed, precisely  how  she  got  in  nobody  knows. 
Whether  the  door-keeper  was  away,  or  busy,  or  sick, 
or  careless,  or  Avhether  the  head-waiter  at  the  dining- 
room  door  was  so  tall  that  he  could  n't  see  so  short  a 
beggar,  or  whether  the  clerk  at  the  desk  was  so 
noisy  that  he  could  n't  hear  so  still  a  beggar,  or  how- 
ever it  Avas,  Mary  Elizabeth  did  get  in,  —  by  the 
door-keeper,  past  the  head-waiter,  under  the  shadow 
of  the  clerk,  —  over  the  smooth,  slippery  marble 
floor,  the  child  crept  on.  She  came  to  the  office 
door,  and  stood  still.  She  looked  around  her  with 
wide  eyes.  She  had  never  seen  a  place  like  that. 
Lights  flashed  over  it,  many  and  bright.  Gentlemen 
sat  in  it  smoking  and  reading.  They  were  all  warm. 
Not  one  of  them  looked  as  if  he  had  had  no  dinner, 
and  no  breakfast,  and  no  supper. 

"  How  man}'  extry   suppers,"  thought   the   little 


MARY  ELIZABETH.  373 

girl,  "it  must  ha'  taken  to  feed  'em  all.  I  guess 
maybe  there  '11  be  one  for  me  in  here." 

There  was  a  little  noise,  a  very  little  one,  strange 
to  the  warm,  bright,  well-ordered  room.  It  was  not 
the  rattling  of  the  "  Boston  Advertiser,''  or  the 
"  Transcript,"  or  the  "  Post ;  "  it  was  not  the  slight 
rap-rapping  of  a  cigar  stump,  as  the  ashes  fell  from 
some  one's  white  hands  ;  nobody  coughed,  and  no- 
body swore.  It  was  a  different  sound.  It  was  the 
sound  of  an  old  rubber,  much  too  large,  flopping  on 
the  marble  floor.  Several  gentlemen  glanced  at 
their  own  well-shod  and  well-brushed  feet,  then  up 
and  around  the  room. 

Mary  Elizabeth  stood  in  the  middle  of  it,  in  her 
pink  calico  dress  and  red-plaid  shawl.  The  shawl 
was  tied  over  her  head,  and  about  her  neck  with  a 
ragged  tippet.  She  looked  very  funny  and  round 
behind,  like  the  wooden  women  in  the  Noah's  Ark. 
Her  bare  feet  showed  in  the  old  rubbers.  She  be- 
gan to  shuffle  about  the  room,  holding  out  one  purple 
little  hand. 

One  or  two  of  the  gentlemen*  laughed ;  some 
frowned ;  more  did  nothing  at  all ;  most  did  not 
notice,  or  did  not  seem  to  notice,  the  child.  One 
said :  — 

"  What 's  the  matter,  here  ?  " 

Mary  Elizabeth  flopped  on.  She  went  from  one 
to  another,  less  timidly  ;  a  kind  of  desperation  had 
taken  possession  of  her.  The  odors  from  the  din- 
ing-room came  in,  of  strong,  hot  coffee,  and  strange, 
roast  meats.  Mary  Elizabeth  thought  of  Jo.  It 
seemed  to  her  she  was  so  hungry  that,  if  she  could 
not  get  a  supper,  she  should  jump  up  and  run,  and 


374  MARY  ELIZABETH. 

rush  about,  and  snatch  something,  and  steal,  like  Jo. 
She  held  out  her  hand,  but  only  said  :  — 

"  I  'ni  hungry  !  " 

A  gentleman  called  her.  He  was  the  gentleman 
who  had  asked,  "  What 's  the  matter,  here  ?  "  He 
called  her  in  behind  his  "  ISTew  York  Times,"  which 
was  big  enough  to  hide  three  of  Mary  Elizabeth,  and 
when  he  saw  that  nobody  was  looking,  he  gave  her 
a  five-cent  piece,  in  a  hurry,  as  if  he  had  done  a  sin, 
and  quickly  said :  — 

"  There,  there,  child  !  go,  now,  go  !  " 

Then  he  began  to  read  the  "  Times  "  quite  hard 
and  fast  and  to  look  severe,  as  one  does  Avho  never 
gives  anything  to  beggars,  as  a  matter  of  principle. 

But  nobody  else  gave  anything  to  Mary  Elizabeth. 
She  shuffled  from  one  to  another,  hopelessly.  Every 
gentleman  shook  his  head.  One  called  for  a  waiter 
to  put  her  out.  This  frightened  her,  and  she  stood 
still. 

Over  by  a  window,  in  a  lonely  corner  of  the  great 
room,  a  young  man  was  sitting,  apart  from  the 
others.  Mary  Elizabeth  had  seen  that  young  man 
when  she  first  came  in,  but  he  had  not  seen  her. 
He  had  not  seen  anything  nor  anybody.  He  sat 
with  his  elbows  on  the  table,  and  his  face  buried  in 
his  arms.  He  was  a  well-dressed  young  man,  with 
brown,  curling  hair.  Mary  Elizabeth  wondered  why 
he  looked  so  miserable,  and  why  he  sat  alone.  She 
thought,  perhaps,  if  he  were  n't  so  happy  as  the 
other  gentlemen,  he  would  be  more  sorry  for  cold 
and  hungr}^  girls.  She  hesitated,  then  flopped  along, 
and  directly  up  to  him. 

One  or  two  gentlemen  laid  down  their  papers,  and 


MAEY  ELIZABETH.  375 

watched  this  ;  they  smiled  and  nodded  at  each  other. 
The  chikl  did  not  see  them,  to  wonder  why.  She 
went  up,  and  put  her  hand  upon  the  young  man's 
arm. 

He  started.  The  brown,  curly  head  lifted  itself 
from  the  shelter  of  his  arms ;  a  young  face  looked 
sharply  at  the  beggar-girl,  —  a  beautiful  young  face 
it  might  have  been.  It  was  haggard  now,  and 
dreadful  to  look  at,  —  bloated,  and  badly  marked 
with  the  unmistakable  marks  of  a  wicked  week's  de- 
bauch.    He  roughly  said  :  — 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  I  'm  hungry,"  said  Mary  Elizabeth. 

"  I  can't  help  that.     Go  away." 

"  I  have  n't  had  anything  to  eat  for  a  whole  day 
—  a  tvhole  day  /  "  repeated  the  child. 

Her  lip  quivered.  But  she  spoke  distinctly. 
Her  voice  sounded  through  the  room.  One  gentle- 
man after  another  had  laid  down  his  paper  or  his 
pipe.     Several  were  watching  this  little  scene. 

"  Go  away  !  "  repeated  the  young  man  irritably. 
"  Don't  bother  me.  /  have  n't  had  anything  to  eat 
for  t/u-ee'  days  !  " 

His  face  went  down  into  his  arms  again.  Mary 
Elizabeth  stood  staring  at  the  brown,  curling  hair. 
She  stood  perfectly  still  for  some  moments.  She 
evidently  was  greatly  puzzled.  She  walked  away  a 
little  distance,  then  stoi:)ped,  and  thought  it  over. 

And  now,  paper  after  paper,  and  pipe  after  cigar 
went  down.  Every  gentleman  in  the  room  began  to 
look  on.  The  young  man,  with  the  beautiful  brown 
curls,  and  dissipated,  disgraced,  and  hidden  face, 
was  not  stiller  than  the  rest.     The  little  figure  in 


376  MyiRY  ELIZABETH. 

the  pink  calico,  and  the  red  shawl,  and  big  rubbers 
stood  for  a  moment  silent  among  them  all.  The 
waiter  came  to  take  her  out,  but  the  gentlemen 
motioned  him  aivay. 

Mary  Elizabeth  turned  her  five-cent  piece  over 
and  over  slowly  in  her  purple  hand.  Her  hand 
shook.  The  tears  came.  The  smell  of  the  dinner 
from  the  dining-room  grew  savory  and  strong.  The 
child  put  the  piece  of  money  to  her  lips  as  if  she 
could  have  eaten  it,  then  turned,  and,  Avithout  fur- 
ther hesitation,  went  back.  She  touched  the  young 
man  —  on  the  bright  hair,  this  time  —  with  her 
trembling  little  hand. 

The  room  was  so  still  now  that  what  she  said 
rang  out  to  the  corridor,  where  the  waiters  stood, 
with  the  clerk  behind  looking  over  the  desk  to  see. 

"  I  'm  sorry  you  are  so  hungry.  If  you  have  n't 
had  anything  for  three  days,  you  must  be  hungrier 
than  me.  I  've  got  five  cents.  A  gentleman  gave  it 
to  me.  I  wish  you  would  take  it.  I  've  only  gone 
one  day.  You  can  get  some  supper  with  it,  and  — 
maybe  —  I  —  can  get  some,  somewheres  !  I  wish 
you  'd  please  to  take  it ! " 

Mary  Elizabeth  stood  quite  still,  holding  out  her 
five-cent  piece.  She  did  not  understand  the  sound 
and  the  stir  that  went  all  over  the  bright  room. 
She  did  not  see  that  some  of  the  gentlemen  coughed 
and  wiped  their  spectacles.  She  did  not  know  why 
the  brown  curls  before  her  came  up  with  such  a  start, 
nor  why  the  young  man's  wasted  face  flushed  red 
and  hot  with  noble  shame. 

She  did  not  in  the  least  understand  why  he  flung 
the  five-cent  piece  upon  the  table,  and  snatching  her 


MART  ELIZABETH.  377 

in  his  arms  lield  her  fast,  and  hid  his  face  on  her 
plaid  shawl  and  sobbed.  ISTor  did  she  know  what 
could  be  the  reason  that  nobody  seemed  amused  to 
see  this  gentleman  cry  ;  but  that  the  gentleman  who 
had  given  her  the  money  came  up,  and  some  more 
came  up,  and  they  gathered  round,  and  she  in  the 
midst  of  them,  and  they  all  spoke  kindly,  and  the 
young  man  with  the  bad  face  that  might  have  been 
so  beautiful,  stood  up,  still  clinging  to  her,  and  said 
aloud :  — 

"  She 's  shamed  me  before  you  all,  and  she 's 
shamed  me  to  myself  !  I  '11  learn  a  lesson  from  this 
beggar,  so  help  me  God ! " 

So  then,  he  took  the  child  upon  his  knee,  and  the 
gentlemen  came  up  to  listen,  and  the  young  man 
asked  her  what  was  her  name, 

''  Mary  Elizabeth,  sir." 

"  Names  used  to  mean  things  —  in  the  Bible  — 
when  I  was  as  little  as  you.  I  read  the  Bible  then. 
Does  Mary  Elizabeth  mean  Angel  of  Eebuke  ?  " 

"  Sir  ?  " 

"  Where  do  you  live,  Mary  Elizabeth  ?  " 

"■  Nowhere,  sir." 

"  Where  do  you  sleep  ?  " 

"In  Mrs.  O'Flynn's  shed,  sir.  It's  too  cold  for 
the  cows.     She 's  so  kind,  she  lets  us  stay." 

"  Whom  do  you  stay  with  ?  " 

"  Nobody,  only  Jo." 

"  Is  Jo  your  brother  ?  " 

"  No,  sir.     Jo  is  a  girl.     I  have  n't  got  only  Jo." 

"  What  does  Jo  do  for  a  living  ?  " 

"  She  —  gets  it,  sir." 

"  And  what  do  you  do  ?  " 


378  MA  BY  ELIZABETH. 

"  I  beg.     It 's  better  than  to  —  get  it,  sir,  I  think." 

"  Where  's  your  mother  ?  " 

"  Dead." 

«  What  did  she  die  of  ?  " 

"  Drink,  sir,"  said  Mary  Elizabeth,  in  her  distinct 
and  gentle  tone. 

"  Ah,  —  well.     And  your  father  ?  " 

"  He  is  dead.     He  died  in  prison." 

"  What  sent  him  to  prison  ?  " 

"  Drink,  sir." 

"  Oh ! " 

"  I  had  a  brother  once,"  continued  Mary  Elizabeth, 
who  grew  quite  eloquent  with  so  large  an  audience, 
"  but  he  died,  too." 

"  What  did  he  die  of  ?  " 

"Drink,  sir,"  said  the  child  cheerfully.  "I  do 
want  my  supper,"  she  added,  after  a  pause,  speaking 
in  a  whisper,  as  if  to  Jo  or  to  herself,  "  and  Jo  '11 
be  wondering  for  me." 

"  Wait,  then,"  said  the  young  man.  "  I  '11  see  if  / 
can't  beg  enough  to  get  you  your  supper." 

"  I  thought  there  must  be  an  extry  one  among  so 
many  folks ! "  cried  Mary  Elizabeth  ;  for  now,  she 
thought,  she  should  get  back  her  five  cents. 

And  truly  ;  the  young  man  put  the  five  cents  into 
his  hat,  to  begin  with.  Then  he  took  out  his  purse, 
and  put  in  something  that  made  less  noise  than  the 
five-cent  piece,  and  something  more,  and  more  and 
more.  Then  he  passed  around  the  great  room,  walk- 
ing still  unsteadil}-,  and  the  gentleman  who  gave  the 
five  cents  and  all  the  gentlemen  put  something  into 
the  young  man's  hat. 

So  when  he  came  back  to  the  table,  he  emptied 


MABY  ELIZABETH.  379 

the  hat  and  counted  the  money,  and  truly,  it  was 
forty  dollars. 

"Forti/  dollars/'' 

Mary  Elizabeth  looked  frightened. 

"  It 's  yovirs,"  said  the  young  man.  "  ISTow,  come 
to  supper.  But  see  !  this  gentleman  who  gave  you 
the  five-cent  piece  shall  take  care  of  the  money  for 
you.  You  can  trust  hiiji.  He  's  got  a  wife,  too. 
But  we  '11  come  to  supper,  now." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  the  gentleman,  coming  up.  "  She 
knows  all  about  every  orphan  in  this  city,  I  believe. 
She  '11  know  what  ought  to  be  done  with  you. 
She  '11  take  care  of  you." 

"  But  Jo  will  wonder,"  said  Mary  Elizabeth  loy- 
ally. "  I  can't  leave  Jo.  And  I  must  go  back  and 
thank  Mrs.  O'Flynn  for  the  shed." 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes  ;  we  '11  fix  all  that,"  said  the  gentle- 
man, "  and  Jo,  too.  A  little  girl  with  forty  dollars 
need  n't  sleep  in  a  cow-shed.  But  don't  you  want 
your  supper  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  Mary  Elizabeth ;  "  I  do." 

So  the  young  man  took  her  by  the  hand,  and  the 
gentleman  whose  wife  knew  all  about  what  to  do 
with  orphans  took  her  by  the  other  hand,  and  one  or 
two  more  gentlemen  followed,  and  they  all  went  out 
into  the  dining-room,  and  put  Mary  Elizabeth  in  a 
chair  at  a  clean  white  table,  and  asked  her  what  she 
wanted  for  her  supper. 

Mary  Elizabeth  said  that  a  little  dry  toast  and  a 
cup  of  milk  would  do  nicely.  So  all  the  gentlemen 
laughed.     And  she  wondered  why. 

And  the  young  man  with  the  brown  curls  laughed, 
too,  and  began  to  look  quite  happy.     But  he  ordered 


380  MARY  ELIZABETH. 

chicken,  and  cranberry  sauce,  and  mashed  potatoes, 
and  celery,  and  rolls,  and  butter,  and  tomatoes,  and 
an  ice  cream,  and  a  cup  of  tea,  and  nuts,  and  raisins, 
and  cake,  and  custard,  and  apples,  and  grapes  —  and 
Mary  Elizabeth  sat  in  her  pink  dress  and  red  shawl, 
and  ate  the  whole ;  and  why  it  did  n't  kill  her  no- 
body knows  ;  but  it  did  n't. 

The  young  man  with  the  face  that  might  have 
been  beautiful  —  that  might  yet  be,  one  would  have 
thought  who  had  seen  him  then  —  stood  watching 
the  little  girl. 

"  She 's  preached  me  a  better  sermon,"  he  said,  be- 
low his  breath  ;  "better  than  all  the  ministers  I  ever 
heard  in  all  the  churches.  May  God  bless  her !  I 
wish  there  were  a  thousand  like  her  in  this  selfish 
world  ! " 

And  when  I  heard  about  it,  I  wished  so,  too. 


AXNIE  LAUEIE. 

The  outcry  of  the  coming  tide  was  pealing  in.  It 
had  the  resonance  of  a  heavy  sea  ;  one  could  hear  it 
a  mile  further  into  the  town  than  one  expected,  and 
felt  a  sense  of  surprise  at  the  depth  of  the  tone. 
The  ocean  was  quite  gray.  The  sky  seemed  rather 
to  take  than  to  give  the  universal  color  which  hung 
upon  the  village  and  the  headland,  and  gathered 
against  the  breakwater  with  a  force  and  an  impor- 
tance that  made  the  impression  of  a  waste  of  sad- 
ness ;  as  if  the  world  had  filled  up  and  brimmed  over 
with  it,  and  had  gone  into  gray  as  people  go  into 
mourning ;  that  being  the  easiest  way  of  recogniz- 
ing what  there  was  nothing  to  be  said  about.  The 
effect  was  heightened  by  the  prevailing  tones  of  the 
granite  which  filled  the  landscape.  The  great  quar- 
ries in  the  background  gaped  into  a  gray  earth ;  the 
cars  which  rolled  or  trundled  by  were  loaded  with 
massive  grayness  ;  so  the  sloops  that  lay  at  anchor 
in  the  little  artificial  harbors ;  the  wharves  were 
piled  with  gray  paving,  regularly  disposed,  making 
rectangular  outlines  against  the  sky,  which  hung 
close,  like  a  curtain  of  a  shade  darker  than  the  stone, 
against  it.  Derricks,  lifting  gray  blocks,  cut  the 
gray  air  on  either  side  of  the  street,  where  the  stone- 
dust  blew  about  under  the  hammers  of  the  paving 
cutters.     Granite  houses  presented  their  unrelenting 


382  ANNIE  LAURIE. 

faces  to  the  severe  harmony  of  the  scenery ;  and  the 
breakwater  itself,  a  solemn  gray  figure  like  a  sarco- 
phagus, stretched  drearily  out  into  the  disturbed  sea. 

There  was  no  fog.  The  face  of  the  ocean  was  dis- 
tinctly to  be  seen,  furrowed  with  black  wrinkles. 
Against  the  breakwater  the  surf  leaped  high ; 
tongues  of  white  flame  licked  the  edge  of  the  great 
granite  dike  and  blazed  up.  The  day  was  so  gray 
that  these  dazzled  the  eye  like  the  sunlight  for 
which  they  were  the  substitute.  The  rocks,  wet 
with  an  immense  sweep  of  spray,  glittered;  they 
had  not  been  frosted  for  some  days,  but  now  the 
night  was  turning  cold.  It  was  the  24th  of  Decem- 
ber, and  in  Stoneport. 

Stoneport  lies  far  down  the  index  finger  of  the 
Massachusetts  coast,  and  has  a  right  to  its  climate. 
God  and  the  fishermen  know  what  that  is.  Para- 
lyzed with  the  weather,  the  long  arm  of  the  Cape 
stretches  into  midwinter,  and  bears  the  cold  like 
dead  flesh.  When  a  gentle  mood  like  that  of  this 
Christmas  week  comes  to  Stoneport  in  winter  the 
people  lift  their  eyes  to  the  breakwater,  glance  at 
the  bows  of  the  boats  to  see  which  way  the  wind 
points,  look  to  their  little  piles  of  coal,  cut  lasting 
for  their  windows,  get  out  the  children's  woollen 
tippets,  and  sa}^,  "  This  is  a  weather-breeder ;  I  wish 
your  father  was  ashore." 

It  had  been  a  singularly  gentle  week,  peaceful  and 
a.lmost  warm ;  purple  mist  throbbed  and  melted  in 
yellow  air,  and  the  snow  fled ;  the  water  had  warm 
loving  colors  —  April  colors  of  blue  and  violet  and 
tender  browns ;  and  the  kelp  palpitated  on  the  red 
rocks  over  on  the  headland  bv  the  licrht-house  as  if 


ANNIE  LAURIE.  383 

it  breathed  ;  the  quarrymen  worked  one  day  in  their 
woollen  shirtsleeves.  Clearly  this  was  well  over 
now.  The  wind  had  set  its  teeth  into  the  east,  and 
all  the  world  gathered  itself  for  the  coming  storm. 

The  quarrymen  had  their  share  of  Stoneport 
weather,  be  it  understood ;  they  understood  it.  It 
was  no  light  job  to  be  a  fisherman,  perhaps  ;  but 
there  were  other  people  in  the  world  than  fishermen. 
Three  hundred  men  looked  up  at  the  offended  sky 
from  the  great  (Quarries  and  works  of  Stoneport,  and 
said,  each  man  to  himself  or  to  his  neighbor,  accord- 
ing to  his  temperament,  "  We  "re  goin'  to  have  a  spell 
of  weather." 

It  was  sometimes  pretty  cold  chipping  stone  in 
winter  in  Stoneport,  but  it  was  not  fashionable  for 
the  quarrymen  to  complain.  There  were  a  good 
many  Scotch  among  them.  They  had  reserve  and 
pride  —  a  man  attended  to  his  own  business  and  took 
his  own  risks  ;  he  was  not  an  object  of  pity  to  sum- 
mer visitors  or  newspaper  reporters  ;  he  respected 
his  calling,  and  defended  it ;  he  was  even  in  the 
habit  of  comparing  it  with  others,  to  the  disadvan- 
tage of  any  man  not  privileged  to  be  a  Stoneport 
quarryman.  Grievances  he  had ;  but  he  did  not 
babble  about  them  ;  he  treated  them  with  a  guarded 
reticence,  as  cultivated  people  do  their  physical  in- 
firmities, and  brought  his  hammer  down  upon  your 
question  to  remind  you  that  his  time  and  skill  were 
marketable  commodities.  Every  line  in  his  heavily 
chiseled  face,  which  looked  as  if  his  own  tools  had 
hacked  at  it  for  half  a  century,  expressed  skepticism 
as  to  the  national  usefulness  of  any  person  who  had 
nothing  better  to  do  than  to  ask  why  he  called  his 


384  ANNIE  LAURIE. 

stand  a  "berth,"  or  how  deep  a  quarry  was.  Never- 
theless, in  the  winter  it  was  cold  cutting  granite  in 
Stoneport. 

"  We  '11  have  the  quarry  to  shovel  come  mornin'," 
observed  an  authoritative-looking,  square-built  fellow 
from  the  bottom  of  the  busiest  pit  in  town.  They 
were  loading  the  derrick  as  he  spoke  ;  it  groaned 
like  a  living  thing  beneath  its  mighty  burden  as  the 
huge  slab  swung  around  and  off  into  the  snowy  air. 
The  men  watched  it  with  glances  of  something  like 
sympathy,  as  if  they  felt  a  kinship  between  them- 
selves and  the  straining,  senseless  thing.  They 
were  muscular  men,  most  of  them,  and  bent  to  their 
work  sturdily. 

"  You  're  out  there,  Washington  E-ock,"  a  cheerful 
voice  made  answer  from  the  door  of  the  engine- 
house.  "  I  'd  like  to  see  the  Granite  Company  that 
'ud  set  you  shovelin'  on  a  holiday." 

"  Christmas  !  I  forgot  it ;  that 's  the  gospel  truth. 
She  's  got  up  some  kinder  rinktum  for  us  to  remem- 
ber it  by,  Herself ;  hain't  she,  Jefferson  ?  I  wonder 
I  forgot  it." 

"  It 's  a  kind  of  a  party  ;  it 's  a  gatherin'  at  Her 
house.  It 's  the  day  She  celebrates,"  replied  another, 
chafing  his  ears  briskly,  for  it  was  undeniably  grow- 
ing cold  and  colder.  "  I  had  a  letter  myself  for  an 
invite.  It  was  written  on 't :  '  Mr.  Madison  Eock. 
E.  S.  V.  P.'  My  woman  said  them  two  fust  letters 
meant  '  Eite  Soon,'  but  what  '  V.  P.'  stood  for  she 
warn't  so  sure.  Say,  Monroe,  what  did  you  make 
on  't  ?     Did  you  have  one  ?  " 

"  Stands  to  sense  I  had  one,"  growled  Monroe  from 
the  pit's  stairway.    "  Did  ye  ever  know  Her  to  slight 


ANNIE  LAURIE.  385 

anybody  or  sarse  anybody  ?  She  's  the  only  person 
I  ever  knew  that  treated  me  like  a  gentleman  sence 
I  was  born  a  qnarryman.  Lord  bless  her  !  My  girl," 
he  added,  with  an  air  of  not  being  too  proud  to 
mention  it  —  "  my  girl 's  been  to  high  school  two 
seasons,  and  she  say's  '  V.  P.'  means  '  Very  Prompt ; ' 
that 's  what  that  stands  for.  But  there 's  a  girl 
alongside  of  her  that 's  been  to  Boston,  who  says  it 
stands  for  '  Verse  of  Poetry.' " 

The  other  men  listened  with  deference.  The  Eock 
boys  were  held  in  great  respect  in  the  quarry  ;  there 
were  four  of  them,  two  brothers,  two  cousins,  named 
by  patriotic  parents  in  the  Presidential  order  men- 
tioned. The  Eock  boys  had  always  felt  the  dignity 
of  their  names,  and  perceived  that  they  had  some- 
thing to  live  up  to.  They  did  not  get  drunk  ;  they 
had  money  at  the  savings-bank  ;  they  "  bossed  "  the 
rest  of  the  gang  as  a  matter  of  course.  Now  and 
then  an  old  Scotchman  by  the  name  of  Dawse  re- 
belled faintljT-,  and  there  was  a  Finlander  who  had 
lost  one  eye  by  an  explosion,  reported  to  be  "  worth 
something "  himself,  and  maintaining  on  both 
grounds  a  certain  right  to  private  opinion. 

"  There 's  a  book  of  etikwette  at  our  house  on  top 
shelf  somewheres  along  of  the  Bible  and  the  cook- 
book," said  Washington  Eock.  "  It  ain't  no  gret  of 
a  chore  to  find  out  what  '  E.  S.  V.  P.'  dooz  stand  for. 
She  knoAvs  we  can  read,  if  we  ain't  rich." 

Miss  Laurie,  by  the  way,  understood  the  quarry- 
men  very  well  in  this  matter.  The  more  ceremony 
about  her  hospitality,  and  the  less  they  understood 
it,  the  better  they  liked  it. 

"  Yon  gaes  the  marster,"  observed  the  Scotchman, 


386  ANNIE  LAURIE. 

with  the  manner  of  one  who  thought  the  Kock  boys 
had  monopolized  the  conversational  resources  of  the 
quarry  long  enough. 

"  Goes  he  to  her  ?  "  asked  the  Finlander,  dropping 
his  drills,  and  casting  the  scrutiny  of  his  single  eye, 
with  the  intensity  belonging  to  deficiency,  over  the 
dreary  landscape.     "  She  deserves  a  husband." 

"  She  's  too  good  for  him,"  protested  Washington 
Kock. 

"  He  ain't  wuth  the  right  to  tie  her  shoe-strings," 
cried  Jefferson  Kock. 

"  She  '11  never  be  married,"  said  Madison. 

"  Lord  forbid  !  "  said  Monroe. 

"No  man  ain't  blocked  out  fit  for  her,"  urged 
Washington  Kock  in  a  final  tone. 

*'  He  goes  not  to  her,"  objected  the  Finlander, 
peering  between  the  guys  of  the  moaning  derrick. 
"  He  will  turn  him  down  the  road  by  Satan's  Pit." 

"  No,  sir,"  persisted  Washington  Kock  ;  <'  Martin 
Derrick 's  on  his  way  to  nowheres  but  to  her." 

"  That 's  so,"  said  Jefferson  Rock. 

"  Bet  your  Sunday  mornin'  brown-bread  on 't,"  said 
Madison,  "  he 's  after  her." 

"  Yes,"  said  Monroe,  "  he  's  after  Annie  Laurie." 

"  Gin  he  war,"  suggested  Dawse,  the  Scotchman, 
after  a  severe  silence,  "  is  there  a  lad  in  these  quar- 
ries to  hinder  the  lass  ?  " 

The  men  did  not  look  at  each  other ;  no  one  an- 
swered the  old  man.  They  were  poor  quarrymen, 
plain  fellows  ;  she  of  whom  they  spoke  was  not  of 
their  sort :  teacher,  angel,  idol,  but  woman  not  for 
them.  They  thought  of  her  as  they  thought  of  the 
evening  star,  which  looked  down  into   the  quarry 


ANNIE  LAURIE.  387 

through  a  break  in  the  clouds  from  a  great  height, 
piercingly,  seeing  everything,  but  touching  nowhere. 
Yet  there  was  not  a  man  among  them  who  could 
have  wished  her  married. 

''  Mayhap  it 's  right  ye  are,  boys,"  said  the  old 
Scotchman  softly,  as  if  he  had  been  answered. 
"  Gin  I  had  the  cliusin'  of  a  mon  for  her  me  ain  sel', 
I  'd  sooner  tak'  him  frae  th'  ither  warld  nor  this." 

Annie  Laurie  sat  in  her  little  music-room  alone. 
She  had  the  thoughts  that,  like  wild  birds,  venture 
near  the  heart  only  when  one  is  alone  and  still. 

Annie  Laurie  was  fifty-one  years  old  —  fifty-one 
to-morrow,  for  Christmas  was  her  birthday  too.  She 
had  passed  the  years  when  one  is  a  heroine.  Life 
was  behind  her.  She  was  a  heroine  to  nobody  now 
except  to  the  quarrymen,  poor  fellows,  who  idealized, 
she  said,  a  little  common  humanity,  or  perhaps  a  bit 
of  experimental  Christianity,  so  easily  that  one  could 
cry  to  think  of  it. 

She  thought  of  it  that  evening,  sitting  there  by 
herself,  and  twisting  bonbons  for  their  Christmas 
party.  She  had  done  a  good  many  things  for  the 
quarrymen,  as  all  Stoneport  knew  —  womanly,  neigh- 
borly things,  warm-hearted,  courageous,  and  charac- 
teristic. Stoneport  expected  them  of  her,  but  it  was 
the  first  time  that  she  had  ever  invited  the  quarry- 
men, her  own  particular  quarrymen,  to  a  party.  She 
was  as  excited  about  it  as  if  she  had  been  fifteen  in- 
stead of  fifty-one. 

"  It  is  the  pleasantest  thing  I  ever  did  in  my  life," 
she  said  to  Mrs.  Tombs  ;  "  it  is  delightful !  " 

Mrs.  Tombs  lived  with  Annie  Laurie  ;    whether 


388  ANNIE  LAURIE. 

maid,  mother,  guide,  philosopher,  housekeeper,  or 
friend,  her  vocatiou  was  complex.  She  was  said  to 
have  a  pretty,  cheerful  name  —  Kate  or  Jenny,  or 
what  not ;  but  Mrs.  Tombs  and  only  Mrs.  Tombs 
she  was  and  wou,ld  be.  It  was  supposed  that  she 
conceived  herself  thus  either  to  maintain  that  per- 
sonal dignity  which  defies  position  or  that  which 
comes  from  it ;  whether  one  was  to  forget  that  she 
cooked  the  dinner  or  remember  that  she  had  been 
married,  was  never  clearly  proved.  Authorities  dif- 
fered on  this  point ;  Miss  Laurie  yielded  it  without 
inquiry,  and  merrily  called  her  Mrs.  Tombs. 

"It  took  you  to  think  on't,"  said  Mrs.  Tombs. 
''  I  would  n't  stone  a  raisin  for  'em,  nor  for  no  mortal 
human,  without  it  was  to  amuse  you.  But,  Lordy, 
if  it  amuses  you  ! " 

Mrs.  Tombs  had  succumbed  on  twisting  bonbons. 
She  said  it  gave  her  an  indigestion  in  the  brain  to 
think  of  it.  She  had  gone  away  to  look  after  some 
heavy  moral  responsibilities  in  the  matter  of  choco- 
late frosting.  Annie  Laurie  could  hear  Mrs.  Tombs 
singing  in  the  kitchen,  — 

"  Day  of  wrath,  that  dreadful  day," 

by  way  of  Christmas  carol,  while  she  whipped  the 
eggs.  Miss  Laurie  herself,  alone  in  the  music-room, 
was  submerged  in  waves  of  colored  paper  and  in  the 
tide  of  her  own  thoughts. 

These  to-night  were  the  long  thourrhts  of  her 
years,  the  quiet  thoughts  with  which  peaceful  mid- 
dle age  comes  to  anniversary  days.  Annie  Laurie 
had  not  always  been  quiet;  she  was  too  handsome  a 
woman  even  at  fifty  to  have  had  a  quiet  life  ;  and 


ANNIE  LAURIE.  389 

then  her  eyes  were  too  dark.  They  were  deep  as  well 
as  dark,  and  bright  as  well  as  deep  ;  they  flashed  as 
easily  as  a  September  sea.  She  had  abounding 
health,  and  sang  like  a  morning  star  sometimes  even 
now ;  her  hair  seemed  to  have  turned  gray  more 
because  it  became  her  than  because  she  was  growing 
old.  She  had  an  erect  figure,  richly  moulded,  and 
a  firm  musician's  hand.  Her  face  was  vivid  and 
strong  ;  and  when  she  was  moved  in  the  right  way  it 
was  sweet. 

Strong  or  sweet,  or  brave  or  merry,  it  was  im- 
possible at  Christmas  time  and  birthday  time  not  to 
remember  —  Ifoiv  a  woman  remembers  !  She  had 
often  prayed  for  a  man's  power  of  forgetting,  and 
then  prayed  to  be  forgiven  for  the  prayer.  She 
knew  that  she  would  not  have  felt  she  was  half  a 
woman  if  she  could  forget.  She  would  have  scorned 
herself  as  if  she  had  done  something  rude.  It  was 
the  way  she  was  made  ;  it  was  like  the  depth  of  her 
eyes  or  the  quality  of  her  soprano.  Who  was  to 
help  it  ?  She  had  loved  one  man,  and  he  had  died. 
Her  story  was  the  story  of  her  country.  Twenty- 
one,  almost  twenty -two  years  ago,  Annie  Laurie  was 
one  of  those  who  "  gave  their  happiness  instead." 
He  gave  his  life  ;  she  knew  it  Avas  the  easier  por- 
tion ;  she  never  said  so,  lest  she  should  seem  to  un- 
dervalue his  share  of  their  sacrifice  or  overvalue  hers. 
They  loved  each  other,  and  he  went  to  the  war. 

They  had  loved  much  —  being  so  young ;  and  she 
had  thought  he  would  come  through  somehow  and 
come  back  to  her.  She  really  had.  It  was  her  ar- 
dent, vigorous  nature  to  do  so.  She  hoped  easily,  or 
at  least  deeply ;   she  did  not  believe  that  George 


390  ANNIE  LAURIE. 

would  be  killed.  Sire  had  expected  to  he  happy. 
She  always  had  been.  She  had  known  the  glad 
youth  of  health  and  ease  and  beauty.  It  was  new 
to  have  to  suffer.     She  had  to  learn  how. 

Theirs  had  been  one  of  the  natural,  bappy  betrothals 
whereunto  all  the  coramon  currents  of  life  set  easily. 
Friends  had  blessed  and  circumstances  had  laughed. 
Annie  Laurie  was  the  daughter  of  the  village  doctor. 
George  Cliff  was  in  the  Granite  Company  —  loas  the 
Granite  Company  after  his  father  died.  (And  the 
Granite  Company  failed  during  the  war ;  after  he 
was  shot.)  Her  lover  was  older  than  she.  They 
had  known  each  other  half  their  lives,  ever  since  Dr. 
Laurie  bought  out  the  old  deaf  doctor's  practice. 
Everybody  was  glad  to  have  them  marry.  Their 
personal  preference  seemed  really  only  the  official 
expression  of  public  opinion  ;  that  was  delightful. 
The  handsome  girl  was  well  liked  in  Stoneport  even 
then  ;  she  had  her  father's  hearty  way  with  people, 
though  she  did  not  trouble  herself  about  the  quarry- 
men  in  those  days.  She  was  too  merry  a  girl  to  play 
My  Lady  Bountiful.  Hers  had  been  the  humanity 
learned  at  the  feet  of  sorrow,  and,  like  the  other 
lessons  which  are  taught  by  that  thorough  teacher, 
learned  well  if  learned  at  all. 

She  was  going  down  into  the  kitchen  to  give  an 
order  for  her  father's  comfort  (for  she  was  a  mother- 
less girl)  one  May  day,  now  almost  twenty-two  years 
ago,  when  the  doctor  came  in  and  called  her,  in  a 
voice  which  she  had  never  heard  in  all  her  life.  He 
met  her  at  the  head  of  the  stairs.  The  entry  window 
was  open.  She  saw  the  sky  and  birds  and  the  branch 
of  the  old  maple.     She  had  on  a  pink  summer  dress, 


ANNIE  LAURIE.  391 

for  it  was  warm.  Blue  of  the  sky  and  rose  of  the 
happy  woman's  robe  melted  into  a  dense  violet  haze 
between  herself  and  her  father's  face.  The  old 
man  held  the  morning  paper  in  his  shaking  hand. 

"  Wait  a  minute,  father,"  said  Annie  Laurie ; 
"  Jane,  make  the  doctor's  coffee  carefully  for  dinner. 
He  is  tired." 

Then  she  turned  and  kissed  him  before  she  put 
out  her  hand  and  took  the  paper,  and  went  away 
with  it  alone  upstairs. 

It  would  have  been  something  if  she  could  have 
laid  her  lips  against  the  grass  upon  her  soldier's 
grave.  But  he  lay  among  the  nameless  dead,  six 
hundred  miles  away  from  her.  He  fell  in  the  ter- 
rible charge  at  Chancellorsville,  and  was  not  seen  by 
comrade  or  by  friend  again.  She  had  no  word,  no 
trace.  The  poor  girl  had  not  even  the  ring  she  put 
upon  his  finger,  nor  her  letters  —  not  one  of  the  little 
sacred  signs  that  grief  cheats  itself  upon.  Jealous 
death  had  swallowed  everything.  He  had  dropped 
out  of  her  life  as  a  jewel  di'ops  into  the  sea. 

The  sorrow  of  the  young  is  a  cruel  sorrow.  An- 
nie Laurie  was  strong  as  well  as  young,  and  she  suf- 
fered as  the  strong  do.  Turn  the  leaf  —  turn  the 
leaf  upon  the  story,  and  read  on. 

Trouble,  as  we  know,  is  one  of  the  contagions  of 
life.  Her  first  was  not  her  last,  and  before  she  had 
come  past  thirty  years  the  brave  girl  had  her  heavy 
share.  When  the  doctor  took  a  malignant  fever 
from  a  pauper  patient,  and  yielded  the  struggle  for 
life  at  a  week's  end,  she  was  not  out  of  the  black 
dress  worn  for  her  lover ;  and  so  she  kept  it  on. 


392  ANNIE  LAURIE. 

She  was  left  with  her  house,  her  musical  educa- 
tion, her  voice,  and  a  bank-account  that  paid  the  un- 
dertaker and  the  grocer.  The  week  after  the  funeral 
Mrs.  Tombs  came  in  at  the  front  door  without  ring- 
ing, and  said  :  ''  I  'm  a  patient.  I  set  a  store  by  the 
doctor.  He  cured  me  of  a  terrible  thing  I  had  the 
matter  of  me.  I  'd  ha'  ben  alongside  of  Mr.  Tombs 
if  your  father  had  n't  pervented.  You  'd  better  be- 
lieve I  was  thankful  to  mercy  for  that.  I  loved  the 
doctor.  His  patients  did,  you  know.  I  '11  live  with 
you  if  you  Avant  me  to.  I  can  get  along  on  board 
wages.  I  'm  well  off,  considerin'  what  Mr.  Tombs 
was.  I'd  like  to  do  something  for  my  doctor's 
daughter." 

"  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Tombs,"  said  Annie  Laurie. 
She  went  up  and  kissed  Mrs.  Tombs,  and  that  was 
the  beginning  and  end  of  that.  In  three  weeks  she 
opened  her  singing-school ;  and  the  summer  people 
took  vacation  lessons,  when  they  came,  for  their  lit- 
tle girls.  She  sang  in  a  choir  in  Fairharbor ;  she 
played  to  rich  invalids  ;  she  was  not  unheard  of  at 
parlor  concerts;  she  toiled  over  the  drifts  of  Cape 
Ann  in  winter  to  give  private  instruction  to  mechan- 
ics' daughters  :  in  short,  she  struggled  for  existence, 
and  had  it.  She  was  a  brave,  busy  woman.  Every- 
body knew  Annie  Laurie.  She  was  not  a  saint  — 
not  a  bit  of  it ;  her  eyes  flashed  too  quickly.  She 
was  a  live  human  creature ;  she  had  even  a  little 
temper  of  her  own ;  she  scolded  her  quarrymen  or 
her  pupils  if  they  deserved  it,  and  made  up  for  it 
next  time  by  bountiful  bursts  of  tenderness.  Al- 
though a  poor  woman,  she  had  moods  ;  she  was  not 
always  the  same ;  she  gave  herself  the  luxury  of  a 


ANNIE  LAURIE.  893 

varied  nature,  and  thongli  she  sometimes  lost  a 
friend  becavise  of  it,  she  kept  more  than  she  lost. 
At  fiftj^-one  she  was  a  bright-eyed,  handsome,  heart- 
some  soul  to  look  u]3on,  with  a  maternal  manner  and 
the  laugh  of  a  girl. 

People  used  to  say  that  she  would  get  over  it  and 
marry  ;  but  they  had,  for  the  most  part,  given  that 
up  now.  She  had  been  beloved,  of  course,  as  most 
women  are ;  times  not  a  few,  as  such  women  are. 
But  she  had  followed  her  solitary  life  as  one  follows 
a  page  that  is  to  be  read. 

Martin  Derrick,  coming  up  to  her  door  that  night, 
looked  in  from  the  threat  of  the  storm  to  the  caress 
of  the  house  with  heavy,  hungry  eyes.  He  could 
see  her  before  he  entered,  for  the  curtain  was  not 
quite  close,  and  even  blew  in  the  gasps  of  the  rising 
gale  that  puffed  through  the  loose,  old-fashioned 
window-casings. 

"  She  needs  a  carpenter  here  for  a  week,"  he 
thought.  She  made  merry  of  her  economies  ;  one 
would  have  thought  they  were  her  luxuries  ;  but  it 
went  hard  with  him  to  look  on  and  see  them. 

She  sat  alone  in  the  lamp-light  (there  was  a  rose- 
colored  shade  upon  the  lamp),  with  her  fine  fingers 
—  whiter  for  the  colors  of  the  gay  paper  —  flashing 
to  and  fro  at  her  Christmas  work.  She  sat  erect 
and  strong. 

Her  brave  face  was  bent;  it  had  a  sweet  mute 
look.  He  wondered  of  what  she  was  thinking.  Her 
thoughts  seemed  to  him  something  precious  and  far, 
like  the  setting  or  the  rising  of  the  sun.  He  was  a 
plain,  busy  man,  who  wrought  in  stone  and  lived  a 
little  rigidly.     The  granite  of  his  quarries  had  got 


394  ANNIE  LAURIE. 

into  liira,  one  might  say ;  his  mind  was  well  strati- 
iied.  He  knew  what  he  wished  ;  he  usually  had  it. 
He  had  desired  success,  and  got  it ;  fortune,  it  came  ; 
marriage,  and  his  wife  adored  him  ;  children,  and 
they  were  fine  fellows  —  never  fell  sick  and  never 
went  wrong.  He  had  always  prospered.  He  ex- 
pected matters  to  go  as  he  chose  to  have  them. 
Nothing  had  ever  thwarted  Martin  Derrick  in  all  his 
life  but  death  and  Annie  Laurie. 

For  Mrs.  Derrick  died,  and  Annie  Laurie  —  He 
was  a  plain  man,  as  I  say,  not  given  to  that  uncom- 
mercial weakness  which  we  call  imagination ;  but 
Annie  Laurie  seemed  as  far  from  him,  at  her  near- 
est, as  the  color  or  the  approach  of  the  sky.  He 
thought  of  her  with  the  reverence  with  which  a  baf- 
fled man  thinks  of  the  unattainable  ;  it  amounts  to 
religion  in  some  men,  and  practically  serves  many 
of  the  same  purposes. 

This  did  not  affect  his  general  belief  that  a  thing 
which  was  not  to  be  had  for  the  asking  was  to  be 
had  by  persisting.  This  was  the  natural  belief  of  a 
successful  man.  When  he  came  in  that  night  and 
sat  down  by  her  and  looked  at  her  serene  and  stately 
face,  his  hands  clinched. 

Good  God !  he  thought,  if  the  heart  of  the  solid 
earth  could  be  hewn  out  and  cut  to  pieces,  and  made 
to  serve  the  human  will,  as  he  had  seen  it,  as  he  had 
felt  it,  all  his  days  and  in  all  his  being,  could  not 
the  tenderness  of  one  solitary  woman  be  won  ? 
What  was  a  man  a  man  for  if  he  could  not  do  it  ? 
Why  was  a  woman  a  woman  unless  she  needs  must 
yield  ?  He  brought  his  lips  together  under  his  gray 
beard,  and  watched  her  without  disguise  ;  she  knew 


ANNIE  LAURIE.  395 

how  it  was  with  him ;  there  was  no  passion  either 
to  conceal  or  to  confess  between  them. 

"  I  don't  see,"  he  said,  with  the  abrupt  candor  of 
long  acquaintance,  "  that  you  look  a  day  older  than 
you  did  when  you  were  thirty-five.  Of  course  you 
know  that  you  are  a  handsome  woman,  though  I 
don't  know  that  I  have  talked  about  that.  But  to- 
night —  what  ails  you  to-night  ?  " 

"It  is  because  I  feel  so  young,  I  think,"  laughed 
Annie  Laurie,  turning  her  fine  gray  head  in  the 
penumbra  of  the  rose-colored  lamp.  "  I  am  fifty-one 
to-morrow,  and  fifty-one  of  my  boys  are  coming  to  a 
birthday  party  with  Mrs.  Tombs  and  me  on  Christ- 
mas night.  Will  you  come  too  ?  That  will  be  de- 
lightful." 

"I  never  knew  anybody  do  such  delicate  things 
for  rough  people."  He  touched  the  dainty  trifle  she 
was  twisting,  with  a  tremor  in  his  strong  hand. 
"  You  cast  your  precious  pearls  before  "  — 

"  No,  no  ! "  she  cried ;  "  I  have  never  felt  the 
tusks  —  never  once.  You  know  better  than  that, 
Martin  Derrick.  How  was  it  in  the  strike  last  win- 
ter ?     Did  they  behave  like  "  — 

"  They  behaved  like  lambs  led  at  your  feet  by  a 
piece  of  blue  ribbon,"  admitted  the  master  of  the 
Granite  Company,  "You  saved  the  Company  a 
hundred  thousand  dollars  ;  and  the  hands  —  but  the 
thing  of  it  was,  they  could  n't  understand  what  you 
saved  them.  They  took  the  trouble  to  keep  out  of 
ruin  and  starvation  and  the  poor-house,  with  no  idea 
in  their  skulls  except  that  they  were  doing  a  favor 
to  you."  He  brought  his  clinched  hands  down  heav- 
ily upon  the  table  among  the  bonbons. 


396  ANNIE  LAURIE. 

"  So  they  were,"  said  Annie  Laurie ;  "  the  great- 
est they  could  do  me.  I  was  very  much  obliged  to 
them.  It  was  delightful."  She  repeated  this  favor- 
ite phrase  in  the  hearty  girlish  way  she  had. 

The  senior  partner  of  the  Granite  Company 
smiled.  *'  You  attempt  to  reduce  the  whole  tremen- 
dous labor  problem  which  is  convulsing  the  world 
to-day  to  the  solution  found  in  the  influence  of  one 
extraordinary  woman.  That  is  not  political  econ- 
omy." 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  reduce  it  to  the  solution 
wrought  out  by  one  extraordinary  man,"  returned 
Annie  Laurie,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Who  is  that  ?  "  he  asked,  forgetting  himself. 

"  He  died  some  nineteen  centuries  ago,"  she  an- 
swered gently. 

"  Oh,  if  you  make  a  religious  question  of  it "  — 
He  waved  his  hand  lightly,  but  the  look  in  his  gray 
eyes  was  not  light.  Perhaps  Miss  Laurie's  way  of 
speaking  had  the  more  weight  because  she  was  not 
exactly  what  is  called  in  Stoneport  "  a  pious  woman," 
dealt  more  in  flannels  than  in  tracts,  and  was  more 
apt  to  bring  you  beef  tea  than  a  Bible ;  was  so  desti- 
tute of  a  "  gift  in  prayer  "  that  it  was  said  but  one 
poor  .woman,  a  paralytic,  whose  only  child  had  been 
killed  by  a  premature  blast,  had  ever  heard  that 
strong,  merry,  merciful  voice  pleading  for  the  help 
of  God. 

"  I  have  offered  no  political  economy  to  the  Stone- 
port  Granite  Company,"  she  said.  "I  have  nothing 
for  anybody,  be  he  in  the  quarry  or  in  the  counting- 
room,  but  a  little  good  sense  that  I  happened  to  find 
in  the  New  Testament.     I  have  never  done  anything 


ANNIE  LAURIE.  397 

for  your  quarrymen  except  to  love  them  and  to  scold 
you." 

"And  T/'  he  slowly  said,  "have  done  little  but 
reverse  the  process.  I  have  scolded  them  and 
loved  " — 

"  Hark  !  "  cried  the  woman ;  "  I  thought  I  heard 

—  did  you  hear  anything  ?  Anything  outside  —  in 
the  storm  ?  " 

For  the  storm  was  rising  now,  and  the  night  was 
growing  wild.  She  went  to  the  window  and  flung  it 
up  with  one  strong  hand.  The  wind  rushed  in,  and 
snow  ;  it  was  turning  deadly  cold.  The  fierce  cry  of 
the  sea  filled  the  air,  and  battled  with  the  soimd  of 
the  gale,  and  beat  it  down,  and  conquered  it. 

"  There  is  nothing,"  she  said  restlessly  —  "  no- 
thing else.     I  thought  I  heard  "  — 

She  shut  the  window  and  came  back.  Snow  was 
on  her  hair  and  her  black  dress  ;  she  glittered  in  the 
red  light  by  the  lamp ;  her  cheeks  blazed ;  she 
looked  like  one  who  has  the  secret  of  eternal  youth. 
His  heart  arose  and  worshiped  her.  His  love  came 
upon  him  with  the  power  of  the  passion  of  middle 
life.  But  he  only  said:  "You  sing  to  the  men 
sometimes.  Give  one  song  to  the  master,  won't 
you  ?     You  know  the  one  I  like  —  everybody  likes 

—  to  hear  you  sing.  Let  me  have  it,  please,  for 
Christmas'  sake." 

She  acquiesced,  silently  moving  to  her  little  up- 
right piano,  looking  gentle,  dumb,  and  sorry.  Her 
rich  voice  slowly  rose  and  swelled  and  filled  the 
warm,  small  room,  which  seemed  to  throb  with  it, 
like  a  heart. 

"  Maxwelton's  braes  are  bonnie 
Where  early  fa's  the  dew, 


398  ANNIE  LAURIE. 

And  it 's  there  that  Annie  Laurie 
Gied  me  "  — 

She  dashed  the  music  down  and  broke  away. 

"  I  can't.  Not  to-night.  Not  even  for  Christmas' 
sake.     Don't  ask  me.     Don't  want  it.     Don't "  — 

"  Don't  love  you  ?  But  you  know  I  do."  His 
square,  gray-bearded  jaw  trembled ;  he  put  out  his 
hands,  but  did  not  touch  her.  He  thought  how 
happy  he  would  have  tried  to  make  her  ;  he  thought 
how  hard  her  life  was.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  his 
love  and  her  loneliness  would  break  his  heart. 

As  if  she  understood  and  answered  what  he  did 
not  say,  she  raised  her  troubled  eyes  and  looked  at 
him  piteously.  "  You  are  a  good  man,  Martin  Der- 
rick. I  am  fond  of  you.  I  never  liked  any  other 
man  so  much  —  except  —  but "  — 

"  I  should  not  ask  you  to  give  me  the  feeling  you 
gave  that  dead  man,"  he  urged. 

She  lifted  her  head.  The  blush  of  fifteen  came 
upon  the  cheek  of  fifty  years. 

"  Could  a  woman  be  a  man's  wife,  and  not  feel  — 
like  that  ?  It  is  n't  my  fault,"  she  added,  timidly  ; 
"  I  can't  help  it.     I  can't  help  being  true  to  him." 

The  man  of  granite  looked  at  her ;  his  eyes  had 
the  expression  of  a  hurt  boy  :  he  thought  of  his 
luxurious  home,  his  fortune,  what  people  called  his 
position,  his  success  —  all  those  small  things  ;  they 
were  so  small  she  did  not  think  of  them  at  all. 
What  was  great  ?  Nothing  was  great  to  her  —  in 
all  this  world,  in  all  her  solitary  life,  her  coming 
age,  her  toil  and  trouble,  her  anxieties  and  poverty 
and  growing  need  of  daily  tenderness  —  nothing  was 
large  enough  for  her  to  see  but  loyal  human  love. 


ANNIE  LAURIE.  399 

Martin  Derrick  brought  his  hand  across  the  notes 
of  "  Annie  Laurie  "  as  if  he  clutched  at  something. 
He  was  jealous  of  that  ghost. 

"  I  will  go,"  he  said ;  and  so  he  said  no  more,  but 
hurried  from  her.  In  his  heart  he  meant  to  win  her 
yet.  He  loved  her  so  much  that  he  could  be  pa- 
tient. As  he  opened  the  outer  door  the  storm  came 
in  with  a  stampede.  Feet  seemed  to  follow  it  — 
human  feet.     Annie  Laurie  sprang. 

"The  cry  !"  she  said — "the  cry!  There  is  a 
cry.  Does  n't  anybody  hear  it  but  me  ?  Let  me 
come  !     Let  me  by  ! " 

Before  his  wits  or  his  hearing  came  to  him  she 
had  sprung,  and  got  herself  past  him  and  out  into 
the  snow.  She  had  snatched  a  long  cloak  from 
somewhere,  and  was  struggling  to  wrap  it  about  her 
as  she  ran,  for  it  dragged,  and  the  wind  took  it  and 
blew  it  away  from  her  tall  figure  like  the  mantle  of 
an  Aurora  on  a  Roman  vase. 

Feet,  indeed,  there  were,  and  voices.  In  the  ad- 
vancing dark  some  of  the  quarrymen  could  be  seen ; 
they  were  moving  to  and  fro  with  the  wasted  force 
and  purpose  of  people  in  great  excitement.  Some 
of  them  turned  irresolutely,  then  came  pushing  and 
rushing  toward  the  music-teacher's  house.  Some 
one  cried :  — 

"Annie  Laurie!  Call  Her.  Send  for  Annie 
Laurie  ! " 

Washington  Eock,  with  a  boy  close  at  his  feet, 
and  the  ^inlander  panting  behind,  dashed  up. 

"There's  a  man  in  the  pit — Satan's  Pit  —  the 
olJ  pit." 

"Why,  but  he  must  be  got  out!"  said  Miss 
Laurie. 


400  ANNIE  LAURIE. 

"  Get  the  men  to  work,  and  keep  your  wits,  and 
don't  bother  the  hidy,  Kock,"  said  Martin  Derrick. 
"  It 's  no  place  for  her.  Go  back  to  the  house,  INIiss 
Laurie.  I  will  attend  to  everything.  Go.  —  Come, 
Washington." 

His  voice  had  the  master's  ring ;  but  the  man 
glanced  at  him  with  the  sly  smile  of  unemployed 
opinion. 

«  She  '11  go,"  he  said.     "  She  'd  rather." 

They  were  plunging  on  together  through  the  fast- 
drifting  snow,  for  no  time  had  been  lost  in  words. 
She  had  paid  no  more  attention  to  Derrick's  sugges- 
tion than  if  it  were  a  snow-flake  that  she  brushed 
away  from  her.  She  was  used  to  being  with  the 
quarrymen  in  their  emergencies  —  sickness,  acci- 
dent, whatever  it  was  ;  they  expected  her.  Their 
homes  knew  her,  their  wives  loved  her,  their  rascals 
feared  her,  their  children  kissed  her ;  she  was  a  part 
of  their  life,  as  delicate  womanhood  may  become  a 
part  of  the  life  of  rough  manhood,  as  love  and  wis- 
dom and  strength  can  become  a  part  of  suffering  and 
ignorance  and  weakness.  It  was  a  matter  of  course. 
Nobody  thought  anything  of  it.  If  a  wedding  hap- 
pened, or  a  burial,  why,  where  was  Annie  Laurie  ? 
If  a  blast  exploded  too  soon  and  hit  in  the  wrong 
place,  and  somebody  must  hold  him  and  catch  the 
last  words,  and  then  go  and  tell  the  widow  —  send 
for  Annie  Laurie.  If  a  man  fell  over  a  disused  pit 
on  a  winter's  night,  sheer  a  hundred  feet  into  the 
icy  water  —  Annie  Laurie  !  Annie  Laurie  ! 

~  "  She  comes  ! "  called  the  Finlander.  He  rolled 
on  ahead,  to  show  that  he  could  run  as  fast  as  any 
man,  if  he  was  a  foreigner.     "  I  see,"  he  added,  with 


ANNIE  LAURIE.  401 

the  comfortable  tone  of  one  who  argued  that  two 
eyes  were  therefore  a  superfluity. 

"  We  've  got  her,"  cried  the  boy,  who  had  gained 
upon  them  all ;  "  we  've  got  Annie  Laurie." 

It  was  longer  than  it  should  have  been  to  Satan's 
Pit.  It  had  never  seemed  so  long  before.  Derrick 
held  her  up  as  they  ran  on  together,  but  they  wasted 
no  strength  in  speech ;  she  knew  she  should  need  it 
all.  It  was  very  dark.  The  lights  in  the  lowly 
houses  on  the  lonely  street  shone  faintly  through 
the  snow.  It  was  very  slippery,  for  it  had  glazed 
over.  Beyond  the  village  the  uttermost,  nethermost 
blackness  of  the  sea-line  yawned  like  a  chaos  or 
chasm  into  which  the  whole  world  must  sink.  The 
rage  of  the  full  tide  filled  ocean,  earth,  and  sky. 

Yonder,  nearer,  more  near,  at  last,  the  lanterns  of 
the  little  group  of  startled  quarrymen  trembled  upon 
the  edge  of  the  disused  pit. 

"  The  feller  was  a  stranger,"  piped  the  boy,  in  his 
shrill  treble.  "  He  never  knew  nobody  used  Satan 
in  these  parts  these  days.  Madison  Eock  says 
that 's  how  he  come  to  tumble  in." 

"  iSTobody  but  a  fool  or  a  f urriner  would  ha'  thought 
on 't,"  said  Washington  Rock,  as  decisively  as  a 
heavy  man  m.ay  speak  who  is  running  for  dear  life 
—  not  his  own.  The  Finlander  took  untimely  of- 
fense at  this,  and  threatened  to  give  his  reasons  at  a 
more  convenient  season ;  but  Miss  Laurie  paid  no 
attention  to  this  military  episode. 

As  she  ran,  hand  in  hand  with  Martin  Derrick, 
vigorously  battling  with  the  storm  as  she  knew  how, 
the  sleet  was  sharp  upon  her  face,  the  deadly  peril 
of  a  human  life  was  on  her  nerves,  but  her  heart 
went  strange  ways. 


402  ANNIE  LAUBIE. 

Two-and-twenty  were  tlie  years  of  the  way  it 
went.  The  night  was  warm,  for  it  was  June.  The 
moon  looked  as  it  looks  to  the  young  and  to  the  lov- 
ing. On  the  edge  of  the  old  pit  they  stood  together 
—  they  two,  she  who  was  living  and  he  who  was 
dead  —  and  gazed  down.  The  pit  was  in  use  then  ; 
the  derricks  were  busy,  the  abyss  was  dry ;  they  had 
grown  up  with  it ;  they  were  not  afraid  of  it ;  they 
wandered  about  it  with  the  affectionate  familiarity 
that  we  give  to  usual  things.  It  was  a  place  to  be 
alone  in,  that  was  all.  It  was  a  pleasant  place  to 
be  alone  in  on  a  summer  night,  and  she  wore  a  white 
dress,  and  he  liked  it ;  the  moon  shone  in  her  face 
when  she  lifted  it  to  him,  and  they  walked  and 
talked  a  little  while ;  and  when  she  said  she  must 
go  home,  for  her  father  would  be  in,  and  need  her,  he 
had  said,  ''  I  love  thee,  Annie,"  and  she  had  an-^ 
swered  — 

"  Here  we  are  ! "  said  Washington  Eock. 

"  Here  we  be  !  "  cried  the  boy. 

*'  We  come  I "  panted  the  Finlander. 

But  Martin  Derrick  had  let  go  her  hand,  and 
made  on,  and  got  among  the  men. 

With  the  supple  motion  and  the  practiced  power 
learned  of  two-and-twenty  years,  her  heart  re- 
bounded. Her  lips  moved ;  no  sound  came  from 
them ;  but  afterward  she  remembered  that  to  her- 
self she  said :  "  George,  I  want  to  save  this  man. 
Help  me,  won't  you  ?  "  Then  she  drew  her  hood 
back  from  her  face,  and  walked  quietly  in  among 
the  men  —  went  straight  to  the  edge  of  the  pit  and 
looked  down. 

Half-a-dozen  sprang  to  hold  her;  it  was  deadly 


ANNIE  LAURIE.  403 

slippery,  and  the  wind  blew  so  !  They  cried  out 
that  it  was  all  up  with  him  —  that  they  had  done 
their  best ;  that  jVIadison  Kock  had  clambered  half- 
way down ;  that  two  Scotchmen  had  tried  ;  that  it 
was  so  glazed  over,  and  death  to  go ;  that  nothing 
could  be  done.  Mr.  Derrick  himself  admitted  that 
he  feared  the  worst,  but  he  busied  himself  in  giving 
short,  sharp  orders  —  something  about  ropes,  and 
the  stairway  in  the  rock.  The  men  obeyed  or  made 
a  feint  of  obeying  the  master,  but  they  glanced  at 
Annie  Laurie. 

She,  shuddering  upon  the  pit's  edge,  stood  during 
all  this  protest,  silently  looking  down. 

"  But  the  man  is  not  in  the  water,"  she  said,  in  a 
low  voice  ;  "  he  is  clinging  to  the  rock  —  he  holds  to 
the  quarry.     He  is  alive.     He  can  be  saved." 

"He  has  slipped,"  somebody  whispered  behind 
her  —  "  he  has  slipped  from  there,  —  to  there,  since 
we  first  saw  him." 

"  An'  there  's  fifty  foot  of  ice-water  in  the  pit." 

"  Gin  I  war  fifty  year  younger,  I  'd  doon  for  the 
mon  me  ain  sel',  by  me  lane!"  cried  old  Dawse, 
stamping  the  icy  snow. 

"  Ay,  ay,"  muttered  a  voice  ;  ''  but  would  ye  send 
yer  lad  ?     Come,  now ;  that 's  the  question." 

The  little  boy  who  had  run  on  with  the  Fin- 
lander  stood  by,  silently.  He  had  the  muscle  and 
the  eyes  of  children  who  work  in  the  stone-yards  ; 
he  was  compact,  like  a  miniature  man,  and  ob- 
served everything.  He  did  not  speak,  but  went  and 
stood  by  the  old  Scotchman  ;  he  drew  himself  to  his 
full  height,  and  locked  his  hands  behind  his  little 
back. 


404  ANNIE  LAURIE. 

"  Cliarley,"  said  his  father,  ''  if  there  's  onything  a 
lad  can  do  to  save  the  mon,  I  '11  no  forbear  ye." 

"  I  'd  just  as  liefs,"  said  Charley. 

A  sort  of  huzza  arose  at  this,  stifled  below  breath 
lest  the  outburst  should  startle  the  poor  wretch  be- 
low. Annie  Laurie,  who  had  till  now  remained  peer- 
ing over  the  pit's  edge  at  the  sickening  sight,  turned, 
and  suddenly  leaning  over,  threw  the  full  force  of 
her  powerful  voice  off  and  down  into  the  pit. 

"  Have  hope  ! "  she  cried.  "  Have  courage  !  Hold 
on  for  your  life  !  Hold  on !  The  Stoneport  quarry- 
men  will  save  you  !     Hold  on  !     Hold  on  !  " 

"  There,  boys,"  she  said,  turning  about ;  "  I  've 
pledged  you  to  it." 

"  Ye  hae  no  bairns  to  feed  like  we,"  said  one  of 
the  Scotchmen  who  had  tried  the  descent  and  failed 
to  make  it. 

''  Give  me  the  rope  !  "  cried  Annie  Laurie,  tower- 
ing in  a  passion.  ''  Put  it  round  me,  some  of  you, 
and  let  me  down,  for  by  all  that 's  brave  in  man  or 
woman  I  '11  not  stand  on  this  pit's  edge  and  see  a 
human  being  perish,  and  not  a  hand  in  Stoneport 
stretched  to  save  him  !     I  'd  rather  die  !  " 

Murmurs  ran  around  from  man  to  man.  They 
looked  at  her  —  they  were  accustomed  to  believe 
she  was  right ;  it  was  a  habit  to  trust  her. 

"  You  're  pretty  hard  on  us,"  one  voice  said. 

"I  can  go  myself,"  answered  Martin  Derrick. 
He  thought  of  those  boys  of  his  —  motherless.  He 
wondered  if  she  remembered  them. 

"  I  '11  go,"  said  Washington  Kock.  "  Mr.  Derrick, 
sir,  you  ain't  young  enough.  It  ain't  sootable.  I  '11 
go." 


ANNIE  LAURIE.  405 

"  I  '11  try,"  said  Madison  Kock. 

"No,"  said  Jefferson  ;  "you  and  Monroe  hain't  no 
call ;  you  are  married  men.  Washington  and  me 
can  manage." 

"  I  come,"  said  the  Finlander,  after  a  moment's 
hesitation. 

It  was  not  as  long  as  it  takes  in  the  telling  before 
this  inevitable  delay  gave  place  to  urgent  action. 
Under  Derrick's  directions  the  volunteers  moved  as 
quickly  as  might  be  to  the  forgotten,  disused  stair- 
way cut  in  the  solid  cliff,  up  and  down  which,  men 
had  passed,  on  happier  business  than  this,  two-and- 
twenty  years  ago. 

Lights  flashed,  cables  swung,  orders  rang  out,  an- 
swers came ;  but  Annie  Laurie  looked  on,  trembling 
and  tortured.  Her  heart  was  breaking  for  her  men, 
whom  her  voice  had  sent  upon  this  doom.  She 
cried  out  and  followed  them,  weeping  like  a  very 
woman. 

"'  Boys  !  oh,  boys  !  I  had  no  right  to  treat  you  so. 
I  shouldn't  have  shamed  you  to  your  duty.  I  'd  go 
myself,  and  thank  you  for  the  chance  to  take  your 
places.     Brave  boys  !  my  brave  boys  !  " 

"  We  'd  ought  to  do  it,"  Washington  Eock  made 
answer,  slowly,  as  they  adjusted  the  rope  about  his 
waist.  "It  ain't  proper  to  see  a  fellar-critter 
drowned  before  your  eyes  —  of  a  night  before  Christ- 
mas, too  —  and  never  try  to  do  nothin'  for  him.  It 
ain't  1/our  fault  it 's  so  slippery." 

The  quarryman  spoke  soothingly,  as  he  would  to 
a  troubled  child  ;  he  held  out  his  rough  hand  and 
touched  hers  —  for  she  wept  so  —  and  begged  her 
not  to  mind,  and  shook  hands  with  his  brother,  and 


406  ANNIE  LAURIE. 

said  he  guessed  he  wouldn't  send  any  message  to 
his  mother,  for  like  as  not  he  'd  come  out  all  right. 
And  so  they  gave  the  rope  out,  and  he  went  down. 

The  ruined  condition  of  the  stairway,  and  the  ice 
that  covered  everything,  made  the  descent  danger- 
ous and  solemn.  The  volunteer  w^as  so  far  pro- 
tected as  a  stout  rope  and  a  score  of  men  to  hold  it 
at  the  pit's  edge  could  protect ;  but  they  could  see 
that  he  clung  like  a  goat  for  his  footing,  and  that  it 
went  hard  with  him.  The  danger,  which  all  recog- 
nized, but  of  which  no  one  spoke,  lay  in  the  chafing 
of  the  rope  against  the  icy  edges  of  the  pit.  —  If  it 
should  cut  ? 

Annie  Laurie,  leaning  over  and  looking  steadily 
down,  was  the  first  to  see  the  quarryman  stop,  and 
crawling  from  the  stairway  to  the  ledge  below,  come 
perilously  out  from  the  deeper  shadow  to  the  paler 
one,  whereon,  an  atom  between  dark  and  dark,  a 
heart-throb  between  the  frozen  rock  and  freezing 
gulf,  the  huddled  figure  lay. 

The  cry  came  up  ;  "  He  is  hurt ;  he  ain't  conscious. 
I  must  have  help." 

Madison  Eock,  tied  in  like  manner  with  the  other, 
■went  down  without  a  word.  The  little  Scotch  boy 
came  forward  and  pleaded  to  be  allowed  to  follow  : 
"  I  'd  just  as  liefs  as  not.  I  ain't  so  big  as  some, 
but  I  can  stick  pretty  tight.  I  've  played  hide-'n'- 
seek  on  that  ledge.  It  ain't  very  broad  —  for  a 
lar(/e  man." 

"  Run  for  a  doctor,  Charley,"  said  Miss  Laurie ; 
"you  '11  go  faster  than  any  other  man." 

Soothed  to  the  soul  by  these  last  two  inspired 
words,  Charley  smiled  and  ran. 


ANNIE  LAURIE.  407 

One  who  was  peering  down  from  the  quarry's 
edge  could  perceive  that  the  men  were  having  a  hard 
time  of  it  with  their  brave  deed.  They  seemed  to 
experience  great  difficulty  in  getting  the  rope  about 
the  body  of  the  unconscious  man,  in  traversing  the 
space  back  to  the  stairway,  in  deciding  what  to  do 
and  how  to  do  it,  in  all  the  terrible  perplexity  of 
the  terrible  moments  which  seemed  without  an  end 
to  those  who  watched  above.  Above  and  below,  it 
had  grown  significantly  still.  Ko  one  spoke.  Mr. 
Derrick  gave  his  orders  by  signs.  He  kept  a  clear 
head,  and  thought  of  everything.  The  men,  from 
habit,  obeyed  quickly.  The  savage  cry  of  the  ocean 
pealed  on.  The  wind  had  abated  or  lulled  a  little, 
but  snow  still  fell  steadily.  Once  a  piece  of  ice 
broke,  and  dropped  into  the  gulf.  Annie  Laurie 
could  hear  it  splash  into  the  black  water.  The  lan- 
tern which  she  had  taken  and  held  at  arm's-length 
shuddered  in  the  snowy  air,  and  sent  a  little  sickly 
light  over  and  down  the  chasm.  Dawse,  the  Scotch- 
man, stood  close  to  her,  and  kept  his  hand  upon  her. 
She  stood  too  near  the  edge.  "I  winna  let  her 
doon,"  he  said  to  the  men.  He  felt  that  the  heav- 
iest responsibility  of  the  rescue  rested  upon  him  ; 
only  here  was  preciousness  in  peril.  What  was  the 
life  of  yonder  pauper  in  the  pit  ?  Was  there  a 
creature  in  the  whole  world  who  cared  ?  iSTot  so 
much  as  a  fule  lassie  to  greet  for  him.  But  Annie 
Laurie  !  —  oh,  Annie  Laurie  ! 

The  cry  came  up :  "  We  're  afraid  we  can't  do  it !  " 

Her  cry  went  down :  "  Boys,  you  can  do  it !  It 
must  be  done  !  " 

The  cry  came  up :  "  He 's  pretty  heavy ;  he  don't 
know  anything ;  he  can't  help  himself  any." 


408  ANNIE  LAURIE. 

The  cry  went  down :  "  Boys,  bring  me  up  the 
poor  man  !  Bring  him  up  as  if  he  were  my  brother  ! 
Handle  him  as  if  I  cared  —  Treat  him,  boijs,  as  if 
I  loved  him  !  " 

"  Sing,"  said  old  Dawse  softly ;  "  sing  to  the  lads 
while  they  do  the  deed.     Ye  '11  hearten  'em." 

"  Ay,  ay  ! "  somebody  made  answer.  "  She  sings 
to  us  times  we  're  workin'  in  th'  quarry.  They  're 
used  to  it ;  they  '11  like  it." 

"  Oh,  perhaps,"  wailed  Annie  Laurie,  wringing 
her  hands  passionately  ;  ''  but  I  'd  rather  be  risking 
my  life  in  the  pit  beside  them  than  to  stay  safe  up 
here  and  sing  at  them." 

"  It  is  the  lassie's  place,"  replied  the  Scotchman, 
—  "  it  is  the  lassie's  part." 

With  this  she  stood  erect,  and  throwing  her  long 
cloak  back  that  she  might  be  quite  unimpeded  in  her 
motions,  poured  all  her  courage  into  her  fine  voice, 
and  so  began  :  — 

"  Maxwelton's  braes  are  bonnie  "  — 

The  cry  came  up  from  the  pit :  "  Ay,  ay !     Sing ! 
That's  right.     Sing!" 
The  song  went  down  :  — 

"  Maxwelton's  braes  are  bonnie, 
Where  early  fa's  the  dew, 
And  it 's  there  that  Anuie  Laurie 
Gied  me  her  promise  true." 

She  sang  and  saw  not  —  did  not  trust  herself  any 
longer  now  to  see  ;  knew  that  the  quarrymen  were 
ascending  with  their  burden  bravely,  like  the  men 
they  were,  perilously  as  they  must  —  but  only  kept 
"  the  lassie's  part ;  "  and  standing  high  above  them, 
tall  against  the  sky,  sang  on  :  — 


ANNIE  LAURIE.  409 

"  And  it 's  there  that  Annie  Laurie 
Gied  me  her  promise  true, 
Gied  me  her  promise  true, 
Which  ne'er  forgot  will  be, 
And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 
I  'd  lay  me  dune  and  dee. 
Which  ne'er  forgot  will  be. 
Which  ne'er  forgot  will  be." 

"  It  is  all  over,"  said  Martin  Derrick,  coming  up 
and.  trying  to  wrap  her  cloak  about  her,  for  she  had 
now  begun  to  shiver  visibly,  whether  from  horror  or 
from  cold.  "  They  have  come  up.  They  are  safe. 
Nobody  is  hurt.     Go  home  now." 

"  I  suppose  I  must  see  the  man,"  she  said,  shrink- 
ing.    "  Is  he  dead  ?  " 

"  Only  fainted,  I  think,  and  hurt  upon  the  arm 
and  head  ;  but  really  not  much.  It  is  one  of  the  in- 
credible escapes.     I  would  n't  look  at  him." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  answered  in  a  strange  tone.  '•'  I 
must  look  at  him." 

His  face  was  turned  away  when  she  saAv  him,  and 
the  men  said  he  looked  badly,  and  advised  her  to 
leave  him  to  them.  He  was  a  man  of  perhaps  sixty 
years  or  so ;  his  hair  was  quite  white ;  he  was  a  poor 
man,  it  seemed,  scantily  dressed,  cruelly  unprotected 
from  the  weather,  from  which  he  must  have  per- 
ished, even  though  uninjured,  soon  enough.  He 
was  some  piteous,  friendless  creature,  just  the  one, 
as  they  all  knew,  to  set  her  sweet  soul  beside  itself 
with  sympathy. 

When  she  had  looked  at  him  she  said,  authorita- 
tively, "  Bring  him  to  my  house." 

Some  one  objected,  but  no  one  disobeyed.  She 
turned  in  silence  and  walked  on  ahead  of  them,  and 


410  ANNIE  LAURIE. 

they  followed  her  with  their  burden,  and  so  brought 
him  to  her  door. 

Mrs.  Tombs  (so  she  said)  was  sorely  put  about  on 
Christmas  morning.  As  though  it  were  not  enough 
to  have  chocolate  cake  for  quarrymen  upon  one's 
hands,  that  a  frozen  pauper  should  be  added,  and 
Annie  Laurie  herself,  suddenly  gone,  by  the  mys- 
terious dispensation  of  Providence,  as  helpless  as 
other  folks.  For  Annie  Laurie  had  no  sooner  got 
the  poor  wretch  across  her  threshold  than  she  had 
dropped  him  from  her  personal  attention,  as  though 
he  had  been  a  gentleman. 

The  men,  she  said,  would  do  everything,  and  Mrs. 
Tombs.  The  doctor  would  see  to  it  all,  and  Mrs. 
Tombs  should  keep  one  of  the  Eoek  boys  to  do  what- 
ever was  needed.  She  complained  of  feeling  ill  after 
all  the  shock  and  exertion,  and  got  herself  into  her 
own  room  and  locked  her  door.  But  when  Mrs. 
Tombs  came  to  it  hours  after  to  tell  her  that  the 
man  had  come  out  of  his  faint  spells,  and  for  her 
part,  she  thought  he  was  n't  hurt  any  more  than  he 
ought  to  be,  and  what  in  the  name  of  goodness  to 
gracious  was  she  to  do  with  a  tramp  in  her  spare 
room  come  mornin'  ?  Annie  Laurie  unlocked  the 
door  and  let  the  elder  woman  in,  and,  for  the  first 
time  in  all  the  years  that  they  had  lived  together, 
put  her  strong  arms  about  the  other's  neck,  and 
sobbed  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

"  It  is  the  resemblance  !  "  she  cried.  "  Oh,  it  is 
the  resemblance  !  I  am  used  to  them  ;  I  see  a  great 
many,  —  all  these  years.  Sometimes  in  the  city  on  a 
street  —  or  perhaps  it  is  a  face  at  church.     It 's  just 


ANNIE  LAURIE.  411 

a  look,  something  in  the  hair,  or  the  way  they  move 
their  head,  or  the  color  of  something,  or  the  eyes. 
For  twenty-two  years  I  've  seen  them.  But  this  one 
—  I  was  worn  out,  and  it  came  so  suddenly  !  I  've 
behaved  badly,"  she  added,  kissing  the  old  woman, 
and  smiling  girlishly  through  her  tears.  "  I  was  so 
tired  ;  I  've  left  too  much  to  come  on  you.  To-mor- 
row I  will  see  him  ;  I  will  attend  to  everything ;  I 
will  see  the  poor  fellow  in  the  morning." 

In  the  morning  it  was  as  she  had  said.  The  in- 
jured man  was  quite  comfortable,  they  told  her,  only 
weak  and  silent.  They  could  make  but  little  out 
of  him  ;  he  seemed  confused  or  troubled ;  he  had 
asked  whose  house  he  was  in. 

The  storm  had  now  ceased,  but  the  day  was  bit- 
terly cold,  and  fires  in  that  plain  house  few.  Mrs. 
Tombs  had  got  her  unwelcome  guest  over  into  the 
music-room,  and  left  him  there  alone,  Avhere  it  was 
warm  ;  and  there,  in  the  broad,  bleak  day-light,  sit- 
ting on  the  sofa,  Avith  his  poor  head  bound,  and  his 
arm  in  a  sling,  and  staring  toward  her,  Annie  Laurie 
found  him. 

She  shut  the  door  and  locked  it.  A^^ly,  she  could 
not  tell.  She  shut  the  door  and  went  halfway  across 
the  room,  and  then  —  stood  still. 

It  was  no  resemblance.  God  of  mystery  !  God  of 
mercy !  it  was  no  resemblance.  None  of  those  tricks 
and  feints  of  imagination  ;  none  of  those  cruel  traps 
in  which  her  weary  eyes  had  caught  her  for  two-and- 
twenty  years.  That  pitiful  figure,  wan  with  misery, 
ragged,  with  a  scared  face  ;  old,  gray,  with  the  beau- 
tiful eyes  that  had  won  her,  the  eyes  that  neither 
life  nor  death  could  change  —  whether  blessed  or  ac- 


412  AN  ME  LAURIE. 

cursed,  whether  she  had  died  or  he  did  live,  —  God 
help  her  !  it  was  past  resemblance. 

*'  George  !  "  she  cried,  in  a  heart-breaking  voice. 
They  took  one  blind  step  toward  each  other,  as  the 
living  and  the  dead  meet  in  the  world  that  is  not  as 
this.  Then  —  for  she  came  to  herself  —  she  stopped, 
threw  up  her  arms  with  a  terrible  cry,  and  retreated 
from  him. 

The  real  meaning  of  the  situation  had  come  upon 
her.  It  had  come  like  the  hand  of  a  God  more  cruel 
than  the  most  impious  thought  of  all  her  life  could 
conceive. 

"  But  you  were  dead ! "  she  cried,  in  a  ringing 
voice.  "  You  have  been  a  dead  man  for  twenty-two 
years  !     I  wish  you  were.     I  ivish  you  had  been  I  " 

He  seemed  to  put  his  hands  out  as  if  she  had 
struck  him,  but  she  saw  them  not ;  he  tried  to  speak, 
said  nothing ;  caught  at  the  top  of  the  tall  rocking- 
chair,  and  bowed  his  head  before  her.  He  did  this 
in  a  way  so  piteous  that,  had  she  been  less  in  mortal 
strait  than  she  was,  the  sight  must  have  come  to  her 
heart. 

She  had  now  gone  deadly  white,  and  stood  tower- 
ing above  him,  as  men  shot  through  a  certain  portion 
of  the  brain  are  known  to  keep  on  standing  after 
death.  As  if  she  had  been  the  dead  and  he  the  liv- 
ing soul,  they  parted  from  each  other  in  that  moment 
for  the  second  time.  The  silence  that  fell  between 
them  was  more  cruel  than  the  silence  of  the  grave. 

Then  the  woman  gave  one  shudder,  and  then  her 
words  poured  out :  — 

"  You  were  not  dead ;  you  were  alive  —  all  these 
years.    You  did  not  come  to  me.    You  chose  —    Oh, 


ANNIE  LAURIE.  413 

my  gracious  God  !  he  was  not  dead !  What  shall  I 
say  to  him  ?  What  does  a  woman  say  to  a  man  who 
has  done  —  such  a  thing  ? 

"  How  cold  I  am !  I  shall  die  of  the  cold.  My 
heart  is  ice.  Feel  m}^  hands.  No  !  he  must  not  touch 
my  hands.  He  did  not  die.  He  deserted  me.  You 
did  not  die.  It  is  nothing,  if  it  is  only  death.  You 
see  I  know  —  I  've  borne  that. 

"  ^Vhy,  George  "  — 

Her  wild  cry  fell  now  into  a  wail  that  might  have 
haunted  the  soul  of  a  man  as  long  as  he  had  any. 
He  made  some  effort  or  protest,  as  if  he  would  have 
spoken  or  pleaded  with  her ;  but  she  was  or  seemed 
unconscious  that  he  had  the  power  of  speech. 

"  Why,  George,  I  loved  you  !  I  said  I  would  be 
your  wife.  You  asked  me  to.  We  loved  each  other. 
You  went  to  the  war,  and  you  died  —  and  I  loved 
you.  All  these  years  I  have  been  like  —  like  — 
Why,  see  !  I  have  kept  your  ring  uj)on  my  hand. 
My  dress  is  black.  I  have  been  like  —  like  your"  — 
Her  voice  sank.  She  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands. 

"  I  can't  tell  him  —  how  it  is.  No,  no.  A  woman 
must  not  tell  a  live  man  things  like  that.  Oh,  I 
thought  I  had  a  sorrow  !  I  thought  I  had  trouble 
because  you  were  dead.  I  thought  I  had  suffered  — 
people  do  think  so.  I  must  tell  them,  I  shall  have 
to  tell  them,  for  they  do  not  know  any  better.  To 
live  all  your  life  —  if  he  is  dead  —  that  is  not  sor- 
roiv  !  There  is  nothing  hard  in  that.  George  Cliff, 
3-0U  might  have  left  me  your  ghost  to  love.  Why,  I 
had  it  all  —  love,  honor,  truth  —  I  had  all  you.  You 
were  not  dead.     You  never  died,  you  never  died,  you 


414  ANNIE  LAURIE. 

never  died  till  this  minute  here  before  my  eyes  !  Oh, 
you  have  done  wrong  —  you  should  have  had  mercy 
on  me.     You  should  "  — 

"  Annie,"  said  George  Cliff,  "  Annie,  I  have  a  word 
to  say  to  thee." 

He  advanced  and  gently  touched  her,  lifting  her 
clinched  hand  as  indeed  a  spirit  might. 

"  Annie,  my  girl,  I  could  n't  help  it.  Try  to  be- 
lieve me.     I  have  been  —  where  I  could  n't  come." 

She  smiled  upon  him  in  a  frightful  way.  Her 
words  were  over  ;  she  had  spent  herself ;  her  bitter- 
ness and  scorn  were  going  deaf  and  dumb. 

"Perhaps  I  can't  expect  to  be  believed,"  he  said 
pathetically,  "  but  I  have  been  insane.  I  was  hurt 
about  the  head.     I  have  been  in  an  asylum." 

"  For  twenty-two  years  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know." 

"  Do  not  knoiv  ?  " 

"  As  God  hears  me  —  no.  I  cannot  tell  you  what 
has  happened  to  me.  I  have  been  —  a  long  time  — 
sick  —  confused.  When  I  came  to  myself  I  came  to 
you.  It  is  hard  to  explain  it,  Annie.  I've  had  a 
pretty  hard  time,"  he  added  gently.  "Perhaps  I 
ought  n't  to  have  expected  to  be  believed.  I  thought 
you  'd  listen  to  me.  But  I  suppose  it  is  n't  a  usual 
case,  and  it  tires  me  to  talk  about  it.  I  have  n't 
talked  mi:ch  lately." 

"  Oh,  as  God  made  us  two,"  cried  Annie  Laurie, 
"  tell  me  the  truth  in  His  sight,  and  tell  me  all  you 
can ! " 

"It  hurts  me  — here;"  he  put  his  hand  to  his 
head  weakly.  She  began  to  see  how  shattered,  what 
a  wreck  he  was  ;  the  force  of  his  incredible  words 


ANNIE  LAURIE.  415 

urged  itself  upon  her  before  he  uttered  them ;  but 
she  stood  apart  until  she  had  heard  them  all ;  and 
so  he  spoke  to  her. 

He  told  her  such  of  the  pitiful  tale  as  his  ruined 
memory  served  him  to.  It  was  a  strange  and  broken 
story.  Perhaps  in  the  records  of  the  civil  war  there 
may  be  stranger,  but  no  sadder  can  be  found. 

He  supposed,  he  said,  it  must  be  thus.  That  he  • 
had  been  left  for  dead  upon  the  field,  wounded  in 
the  head,  captured  in  the  delirium  of  surgical  fever, 
and  made  maniac,  or  kept  so,  in  some  of  those  pris- 
ons of  theirs  ;  but  he  could  not  swear  to  her,  for,  be- 
fore God,  he  did  not  know.  This  was  his  belief.  He 
had  further  the  belief  that  he  must  have  escaped, 
perhaps  got  himself  into  some  enemy's  disguise,  and, 
still  being  as  he  was,  had  been  swept  into  some  county 
hospital  of  the  dark,  old-fashioned  type,  where  he 
had  been  detained,  and  no  doubt  with  cause  enough, 
for  years  more  than  he  had  means  of  counting,  and 
treated  —  as  he  was.  He  remembered  something  of 
the  experience  and  something  of  what  befell  him 
after.  He  thought  he  must  have  had  periods  of  com- 
parative sanity,  in  their  turn  succeeded  by  attacks  of 
the  other,  produced  by  his  despair  of  freedom.  But 
the  great  trouble,  he  thought,  had  been  with  his 
memory. 

The  fate,  not  imknown  to  medical  history,  which, 
after  wounds,  fever,  and  hardships,  paralyzes  the 
memory,  had  come  upon  him.  His  past  was  gone  ; 
with  it  his  home,  his  name. 

He  thought  he  had  again  escaped.  Perhaps  there 
was  a  fire ;  he  seemed  to  remember  a  fire,  and  that 
an  old  patient  was  burned ;  but  whether  he  escaped 


416  ANNIE  LAURIE. 

or  was  discharged  he  could  not  say.  That  he  had 
been  free  for  several  years  he  thought  was  true.  He 
thought  he  had  wandered  westward  and  back  again. 
Once  he  had  been  put  in  a  county-house  again ;  that 
was  in  Pennsylvania  somewhere.  There,  he  said,  he 
had  been  cared  for.  He  thought  there  must  have 
been  real  medical  skill ;  he  was  fond  of  the  superin- 
tendent. One  of  the  doctors  said  to  another  one  day, 
''It  is  loss  of  identit}^"  The  words  made  an  im- 
pression on  him  ;  he  did  not  forget  them.  He  grew 
better  ;  they  were  kind  to  him.  He  told  them  what 
came  into  his  mind,  and  he  thought  he  must  have 
told  a  straight  story,  and  that  in  time  they  had  dis- 
charged him  ;  but  as  to  that  he  could  not  say.  He 
was  quite  sure  that  he  had  never  been  able  to  give 
them  his  name.  He  had  tried  hard  to  remember  his 
name ;  it  was  probable  that  he  had  invented  some- 
thing when  it  served  a  purpose.  He  had  tramped 
for  a  living,  had  worked  in  the  fields  and  on  the 
roads,  as  such  cases  do ;  he  did  not  know  how  he  got 
along.  He  tried  a  place  in  a  store  one  cold  week 
somewhere,  but  he  could  not  make  change,  and  they 
turned  him  off.  His  memory  was  always  the  trouble. 
He  used  to  wish  he  could  remember  where  he  came 
from.  When  he  escaped  he  always  thought  he  should 
get  home  ;  it  disappointed  him  that  he  never  did.  As 
he  grew  physically  stronger,  in  the  open  air  so  much, 
and  with  his  freedom  and  the  hard  muscular  exer- 
cise, he  said  that  he  could  remember  how  he  strug- 
gled to  remember,  and  that  by  degrees  he  seemed  to 
catch  and  miss  at  something,  but  it  did  not  come. 
Still  he  remained  a  man  without  a  past.  Sometimes 
he  had  strange,  strong  thoughts  of  rocks,  a  quarry, 


ANNIE  LAURIE.  417 

the  sea ;  but  these  were  confused,  and  gave  him  dis- 
tress when  he  had  them  ;  he  did  not  cultivate  them. 
"  One  day,"  he  said,  "  it  was  evening,  and  I  had 
mowed  all  day  on  a  man's  farm.  It  was  sunset,  and 
all  the  men  were  tired.  It  was  a  bright  night.  We 
started  to  go  up  over  the  pasture  —  for  I  remember 
that  very  well  —  in  a  long  row,  in  a  little  foot-path, 
single  file.  Every  man  carried  his  scythe,  and  I  saw 
the  sun  flash  on  the  blades  before  me  as  I  walked 
along.  The  men  began  to  sing,  while  we  were  walk- 
ing, to  keep  their  courage  up,  for  we  were  very  tired. 
I  was  tired  —  tired  in  the  body ;  but  my  head  was 
cool  and  quiet.  The  men  began  to  sing.  They  sang 
those  lines  you  know :  — 

"  '  Her  face  it  is  the  fairest 

That  e'er  the  sun  shone  on.  .  .  . 
And  she  's  a'  the  world  to  me.' 

When  I  heard  that,  I  stopped  short  behind  the  men, 
and  I  said,  '  Good  God ! '  for  the  song  they  sang  was 
'  Annie  Laurie.'  And  it  came  upon  me.  My  mem- 
ory came  upon  me,  like  the  brook  that  flowed  across 
the  field,  quiet  and  trickling,  and  then  as  clear  as 
clean  water  underneath  the  sky.  I  put  down  my 
scythe,  and  fell  upon  my  knees,  and  lifted  up  my 
hands,  and  said :  '  That  is  her  name.  Annie  —  Annie 
Laurie.  That  is  my  dear  girl's  name.'  And  then  I 
said,  flash  !  like  that,  '  George  Cliff!  Annie  Laurie, 
Annie  Laurie,  Annie  Laurie  !  She 's  a'  the  world  to 
you! ' 

"  So  my  memory  came  upon  me  from  that  hour, 
and  I  arose  and  came  to  thee. —  You  must  do  as  you 
think  best  about  believing  in  me,  Annie,"  he  added 
pitifully. 


418  ANNIE  LAURIE. 

But  she  had  sunken  slowly,  inch  by  inch,  till  she 
fell  upon  her  knees,  till  she  crawled  upon  the  floor 
before  him,  and  laid  her  cheek  upon  his  ragged  shoe. 

The  quarrymen  had  their  Christmas  party,  not- 
withstanding. In  all  the  shock  and  solemn  strange- 
ness of  what  befell  her,  she  did  not  forget  them,  and 
wished  it  to  be  so.  She  put  away  her  black  dress, 
and  stood  among  them  in  a  gown  of  white  wool, 
looking  unfamiliar  to  them,  and  remote,  as  one  who 
kncAV  not  whether  she  were  of  the  dead  or  living.  It 
was  a  suggestion  of  the  long  burden  which  love,  the 
burden-bearer  and  burden-easer,  would  bring  to  her 
in  such  strangely  heavy  measure,  that  the  sick  man 
was  too  ill  to  be  present. 

The  startled  word  of  what  had  come  to  her  had 
gone  abroad  among  the  men.  They  received  it  as  the 
Sadducees  received  the  resurrection.  She  tried  to  tell 
them  how  it  was,  herself,  but  her  strength  failed  her, 
and  she  asked  Washington  Eock  to  speak  for  her. 
He  did  the  best  he  could.  Despite  themselves,  the 
quarrymen  looked  skeptical  and  sober ;  they  mut- 
tered about  the  crazy  man,  and  the  care  she  took 
upon  herself;  that  he  was  likely  to  have  spells. 
Who  knew  what  he  would  do  in  them  ?  And  his 
folks  and  his  property  were  gone  ;  he  'd  be  a  burden 
to  her.     And  thus,  and  thus,  and  so. 

"  Come,  boys,"  said  Washington  Eock,  "  give  her 
joy  !  You  'd  oughter.  It  is  the  Lord's  doing,  and  it 
ain't  for  the  like  of  us  to  argefy  upon  His  miracles. 
If  He  takes  the  trouble  to  work  'em  in  Palestyne  or 
Massachusetts,  that  ain't  our  lookout.  It's  His'n. 
Give  her  joy,  boys  !     Don't  you  think  she  needs  it  ? 


ANNIE  LAURIE.  419 

Come !  Think  of  the  years  she  's  been  in  and  out 
amongst  ns  —  in  our  homes,  amongst  our  wives  and 
children  and  our  old  folks,  when  we  was  sick,  and 
when  we  was  well  and  happy,  or  if  we  was  in  trouble 
—  she  so  different ;  she  going  home  after  it  by  her- 
self, not  like  us  ;  nobody  that  you  might  call  her 
own.  And  now  this  that  has  happened,  it  has  hap- 
pened, boys  ;  and  the  lad  she  has  been  true  to  ever 
since  we  knowed  her,  he  was  dead  and  is  n't,  and  the 
hand  of  God  was  heavy  on  him.  She  says  for  me  to 
tell  you  that  they  will  spend  their  old  age  together, 
please  God,  and  that  she  will  care  for  him,  and  do 
for  him,  and  be  a  good  wife  to  him,  and  be  a  happy 
creetur  like  other  human  creeturs,  and  that  she  'd 
like  our  love  and  blessin'  —  and  I  believe  that 's  all. 
And  I,  for  one,  say.  Give  it  to  her  —  give  it  to  her 
hearty  ! " 

"Well,"  said  Madison  Rock,  "we'll  give  it 
hearty." 

"We  bless  her,"  said  Monroe  and  Jefferson. 

"  I  bless,"  said  the  Finlander. 

"  Amen,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Toombs. 

"  Hooroar  !  "  cried  Charley  Dawse  ;  "  I  'd  just  as 
liefs." 

"  I  've  said  the  word  before  the  day,"  said  the  old 
Scotchman,  "  gin  I  had  the  chusin'  of  a  mon  for  her, 
I  'd  sooner  tak'  him  frae  t  'ither  warld  nor  this." 

"  May  God  Almighty  bless  her  !  "  said  Martin  Der- 
rick, last  of  all.  But  he  went  out  and  walked  to  and 
fro  upon  the  heavy  snow,  in  the  still,  cold  Christmas 
night.  It  was  quite  still.  It  was  very  cold.  The  tide 
was  going  out.  There  was  no  wind.  Against  the 
dark  sea-line  the  darker  finger  of  the  breakwater 


420  ANNIE  LAURIE. 

pointed  to  the  east.  The  quarries  yawned  black, 
like  gulfs  of  silence,  into  which  one  might  drop 
something  articulate,  and  lose  it  for  all  time.  He 
wondered  that  he  had  ever  been  jealous  of  a  ghost. 


THE   LAW  AND   THE   GOSPEL. 

AN^  EASTER    STORY. 

The  Governor  of  the  State  was  eating  kidgeree. 

Now,  as  is  well  known,  the  Governor  is  popularly- 
supposed  to  breakfast  on  turbot,  reed-birds,  sweet- 
breads, croquettes,  black  Hamburg  grapes,  and,  in 
general,  a  menu  so  expensive  as  to  justify  the  taxes. 
The  simple  fact  which  I  notice  may,  therefore, 
hardly  be  credited,  but  is  none  the  less  a  fact ;  and, 
as  it  has  an  indirect  connection  with  the  events  of 
our  story,  it  is  given  for  what  it  is  worth. 

For  the  Governor,  like  most  of  our  republican 
rulers,  having  once  been  a  man  of  simple  life,  had 
never  entirely  outgrown  the  tastes  of  his  humbler 
days,  and  it  was  his  pleasure  now  and  then  to  grat- 
ify them.  This  he  did  at  the  cost  of  some  mild 
difference  of  opinion  between  himself  and  his  wife  ; 
who  always  yielded,  however  (since  it  was  not  an 
important  point),  to  her  lord's  preference  in  the  end, 
and  on  this  particular  morning  had  even  gone  below 
and  supervised  the  ordering  of  the  plebeian  break- 
fast, which  the  chef,  scorning  this  lapse  from  high 
life,  had  definitely  determined  to  burn. 

"  Your  cook  improves,  my  dear,"  said  the  Gover- 
nor, contentedly.  "  This  is  the  best  kidgeree  I  have 
had  since  we  lived  opposite  the  factory  and  you  used 
to  make  it  yourseK." 


422  THE  LAW  AND  THE  GOSPEL. 

Tlie  Governor's  wife,  looking  along  the  pattern  of 
her  pretty  breakfast-cloth,  smiled  brilliantly. 

"  And  you  thought  we  could  n't  afford  it  because 
it  took  six  eggs,  I  remember." 

"  Two,  Mr.  Masscon,  two  !  But  then,  as  it  used  up 
the  fish  "— 

"  And  the  rice,  was  n't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  it  really  was  an  economical  '  left-over.' 
And  I  never  saw  any  man  enjoy  anything  more. 
Do  you  remember  "  — 

"  What  is  it,  Thomas  ?  Not  now.  Let  him  wait, 
whoever  it  is,  till  the  proper  time,  or  else  let  him  go 
about  his  business,  and  come  again.  What  were  you 
saying,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing  —  no — really  I  have  forgotten.  I 
was  only  thinking  of  those  old  days.  Harold  was 
a  baby  then.     We  were  so  happy." 

"  We  were  very  happy !  "  replied  the  Governor 
emphatically.  "  And  that  is  one  thing  I  like  about 
kidgeree.     It  is  full  of  reminiscences." 

"I  notice  it  always  made  you  good-natured," 
laughed  the  lady.  "  If  I  wanted  to  gain  a  point 
with  you,  I  should  give  you  a  kidgeree  breakfast. 
Estimate  my  devotion,  then,  by  the  fact  that  I  have 
no  point  to  gain  to-day.  -—  Oh,  Thomas !  There 
again  ?     AVhat  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  I  ordered  you  to  let  him  go,  Thomas,  did  n't  I  ?  " 
said  the  Governor,  in  a  voice  of  pathetic  appeal. 

He  used  to  give  orders  with  twice  the  authority, 
back  in  those  days  when  he  was  foreman  of  the 
Whisk  Broom  Factory ;  long  before  he  entered  the 
firm. 

The  Governor  of  the  best  State  in  the  Union  was 


THE  LAW  AND   THE  GOSPEL.  423 

tlie  most  inoffensive  man  in  the  world ;  compared 
with  the  proprietor  of  the  factory  that  had  made 
his  fortune,  he  was  curiously  averse  to  the  use  of 
authority.  His  servants  managed  him  easily,  his 
inferior  officers  adored  him,  and  his  wife  had  only 
to  smile  on  him. 

"  Now,  Thomas,  what  is  it  ?  Why  don't  you  send 
the  visitor  away  ?     Tell  him  "  — 

"  If  you  please,  sir,"  interrupted  Thomas,  with  the 
respectful  familiarity  of  an  old  factory  hand  years 
ago  promoted  to  be  inside  man,  and  now  aspiring  to 
the  title  of  Governor's  butler,  "  it  is  n't  a  him,  it 's  a 
her.     I  think  if  you  was  to  see  her,  sir  "  — 

"Oh,  well,  well,"  said  the  Governor  wearily,  "I 
suppose  so,  I  suppose  so  !  Is  she  a  type-writer  girl  ? 
Or  an  autograph  fiend  ?  Or  does  she  want  a  loan 
of  five  thousand  dollars  t6  take  a  university  course  ? 
Or  perhaps  she  gives  me  the  privilege  of  buying  her 
poems.  Probably  she  would  like  an  office  for  her 
young  man." 

"  Xo,  sir,"  said  Thomas,  with  an  injured  air  ;  "  I 
should  hope  I  had  more  experience,  sir.  I  ain't  in 
the  habit  of  disturbing  the  family  at  breakfast  for 
none  of  them.  All  I  would  wish  to  say  is,  if  you 
was  to  see  her  yourself  —  she  says  she  's  got  to  get 
away  by  half  -  past,  and  you  '11  understand  why  when 
you  hear  her  errand,  she  says.  You  might  take  a 
chance  peek  through  the  crack  of  the  reception-room 
door,  sir,  and  then  I  could  abide  by  your  judgment, 
sir." 

"  Very  well,  Thomas,  very  well.  I  will  come 
after  breakfast.  Let  her  sit  till  then.  Fancy,  my 
dear  ! "  laughed   the   Governor,  turning   his   round. 


424  THE  LAW  AND   THE  GOSPEL. 

happy  face  back  toward  the  head  of  his  breakfast- 
table,  "the  Governor  of  the  greatest  State  in  the 
Union  peeking  through  a  crack  at  his  own  callers  ! 
There  is  no  more  sense  of  state  in  this  house  than 
there  is  —  or  —  was  "  — 

"  In  the  Broom  Factory  !  "  nodded  Mrs.  Masscon. 
"  Not  as  much,  Henry,  not  as  much  !  And  still," 
added  the  lady  thoughtfully,  "we  seem  to  be  so 
happy ! " 

"  Hapjyy  /  I  should  think  so  ! "  repeated  the  Gov- 
ernor, with  that  resonant,  affectionate  emphasis 
■which  made  him  so  lovable  after  forty  years  of  mar- 
ried life. 

He  kissed  her  when  he  had  finished  his  kidgeree 
and  coffee  and  rolls,  just  as  he  used  to  do  every 
morning,  when  he  went  to  his  day's  work  at  the  fac- 
tory ;  and  patted  her  on^  the  cheek,  —  she  had  a 
handsome  cheek  still,  —  and  hurried,  "  Herald  "  and 
"Times"  in  hand,  busily  to  the  reception-room  to 
have  it  over  with  the  visitor. 

Now  the  Governor's  house  was  large ;  larger  than 
many  of  its  kind,  even  in  this  country  of  private 
palaces.  In  fact,  it  was  truly  little  less  than  a  pal- 
ace ;  a  new  house  well  designed  and  gorgeously  ap- 
portioned. He  had  some  distance  to  walk  across 
the  halls  to  the  reception-room,  which,  far  by  the 
door  yonder,  commanded  a  glimpse  of  the  family 
breakfast-room.  Seen  at  that  distance,  and  in  the 
freshets  of  sunshine  overflowing  the  room,  it  had  a 
dazzling  look,  and  whirred  before  the  eyes  of  the 
woman  as  she  saw  his  round  figure  starting  from 
the  brilliant  background,  and  advancing  toward  her 
across  the  soundless  carpets,  with  a  rapid  step. 


THE  LAW  AND  THE  GOSPEL.  425 

Now  the  Governor  was  still  looking  over  the  "  Her- 
ald," as  he  came  down  the  long  hall,  and  continued  to 
do  so  until  upon  the  threshold  of  the  reception- 
room.  The  woman  had,  therefore,  ample  time  to  ob- 
serve him  before  he  glanced  at  her ;  and,  before  he 
did  so,  she  pulled  down  her  veil. 

It  was  an  old  green  barege  veil,  much  worn  with 
the  frosty  breaths  ,of  many  winters;  it  had  a  little 
thin  rim  across  her  mouth.  Her  dress  of  black 
serge,  also,  was  worn  sere.  Her  cloak,  of  cheap 
cloth,  was  thin,  and  the  nap  was  gone  ;  her  gloves 
were  mended  and  stained.  She  had  a  black  Spanish 
lace  tie  or  scarf,  much  darned,  tied  as  a  tippet  about 
her  throat ;  knit  woolen  gaiters,  tucked  into  low  rub- 
bers, covered  her  feet  and  ankles  ;  the  gaiters  were 
damp  with  the  snow  and  slush;  for  the  month 
was  December.  One  noticed  this  because  her  dress 
was  so  carefully  pinned  up  over  her  petticoats  that 
she  could  not  let  it  down,  although  in  the  Gover- 
nor's house.  She  seemed  to  be  an  old  woman  and 
not  strong ;  for  she  trembled  visibly  when  the  Gov- 
ernor entered  the  room. 

His  keen  official  eye  took  her  in  at  a  glance  ;  and 
its  kind,  personal  expression  shot  athwart  the  pupils. 

"  Your  errand,  madam  ?  "  he  began,  with  his  pleas- 
ant manner. 

"  It  will  —  take  —  a  little  time,"  faltered  the  vis- 
itor. 

"  I  can  give  you  ten  —  no,  I  will  give  you  fifteen 
minutes,"  replied  the  Governor,  taking  out  his  watch. 
At  the  sound  of  her  voice  he  had  thrown  a  piercing 
look  at  her  veiled  face,  and  now,  as  he  sat  down  op- 
posite her,  he  wheeled  suddenly,  and,  rising,  called 


426  THE  LAW  AND  THE  GOSPEL. 

to  liis  wife,  whose  white  morning-robe  he  heard  trail- 
ing through  the  hall  at  that  moment. 

''  Mrs.  Masscon !  My  dear,  will  you  have  the 
goodness  to  order  Thomas  to  bring  a  cup  of  coffee  ? 
This  person  here  is  chilled  and  wet." 

"  I  need  nothing,  nothing  !  "  protested  the  visitor. 
"  I  have  breakfasted.     I  am  quite  strong." 

"I  will  bring  it  myself,"  rejjlied  Mrs.  Masscon 
unexpectedly.  She  had  never  been  known  to  fail  to 
take  an  important  hint  from  her  husband  in  all  their 
official  life. 

She  took  the  coffee  from  Thomas  in  the  simple, 
natural  way  in  which  things  were  done  in  that 
house,  and  brought  it  to  the  woman  herself,  sweep- 
ing in  tall,  white,  and  warm,  a  vision  of  luxury  and 
happiness.  At  sight  of  her  the  poor  woman  brought 
her  thin  lips  together  with  a  little  dry  sound  —  an 
involuntary  outcry  of  misery  before  a  vision  of  joy. 

'"Let  me  help  you  to  untie  your  veil,  madam," 
said  Mrs.  Masscon  gently.  Without  waiting  for  the 
protest  she  deftly  removed  the  old  green  veil ;  with 
the  instinct  of  a  lady,  she  took  the  trouble  herself  to 
fold  it  before  she  laid  it  in  the  lap  of  the  trembling 
creature. 

As  the  barege  fell  from  her  pinched  face  the  vis- 
itor drew  a  sharp  breath.  It  had  been  the  folly  of 
her  weakness  and  her  misery  to  defer  the  inevitable. 
Now  that  it  had  come,  she  was  glad  of  it. 

As  the  Governor's  eyes  searched  her  face  his  ex- 
pression underwent  a  palpable  change. 

"  Madam,"  he  said  coldly,  "  I  have  seen  you  here 
before." 

Mrs.  Masscon  set  down  the  coffee  upon  a  little 


THE  LAW  AND  THE  GOSPEL.  427 

mosaic  table,  and  quietly  left  the  room.  The  old 
lady  looked  at  the  cup,  which  she  did  not  touch.  It 
was  a  Dresden  cup ;  the  tray  was  silver ;  the  doyley 
silk.  The  rich,  strong  coffee  steamed  up  with  a  fine 
aroma.  Her  lips  twitched  with  the  weakness  of  a 
half-fed  woman. 

"  You  had  better  drink  it,"  he  said,  without 
warmth  of  manner.     She  shook  her  head. 

"  I  have  come  back,"  she  gasped.  "  I  have  come 
again." 

"It  is  a  pity,"  said  the  Governor  more  softly. 
"It  is  useless,"  he  added,  chilling  again.  "It  is 
quite  useless.  It  is  a  waste  of  your  strength  —  and 
of  my  time." 

"  I  have  something  to  tell  you,  sir,"  murmured  the 
old  lady.  "  I  thought  you  would  hear  me.  You  are 
a  kind  man.  I  have  always  told  Joseph  you  were  a 
kind  man." 

"  I  am  the  Governor  of  the  Commonwealth  whose 
laws  your  son  has  broken,"  he  said  rigidly.  "I  am 
responsible  to  my  con — "  he  hesitated ;  it  occurred 
to  him  to  wonder  if  she  would  understand  what 
"  constituents  "  were  —  "  to  the  people  for  the  exe- 
cution of  the  statutes." 

"  I  suppose  so,"  she  answered  humbly  ;  "  but  that 
does  n't  help  Joseph  any." 

"  The  pardoning  power,"  began  the  Governor,  try- 
ing to  harden  himself  before  this  naive  reply,  "  is 
not  a  mere  privilege,  a  luxury  of  office ;  it  is  a  sa- 
cred responsibility,  Mrs.  Luke.  I  must  fulfill  it  to 
the  best  of  my  judgment  and  my  conscience.  I 
must —  Do  drink  that  coffee.  You  look  faint, 
madam." 


428  THE  LAW  AND  THE  GOSPEL. 

She  looked  at  the  coifee  with  a  spark  in  her  faded 
eye.  It  would  have  choked  her  !  She  felt  that  she 
could  have  starved  more  easily  than  she  could  have 
broken  fast  in  this  gorgeous,  incomprehensible,  un- 
assailable palace,  where  power  to  bless  her  so  utterly 
denied  her  so  inexorably.  To  her  limited  feminine 
view  of  life  the  conscience  of  justice  was  inconceiv- 
able. With  how  many  such  pitiable  visits  as  this 
had  she  cheated  hope  and  fed  despair  ! 

"  You  are  the  fourth,"  she  said  suddenly.     "  I  've 
seen  every  Governor,  every  one  of  'em !     I  've  been 
and  been  till  they  wouldn't  let  me  in.     I  had  to  go. 
I  have  to  come.     Governor  Hopkins  was  the  first  — 
but  Joseph  had  only  just  received  his  sentence  then. 
Governor  Adams  said  he  'd  consider  the  case.     But 
Governor   Wise   was  a  Unitarian,"    she    explained, 
with  that  simplicity  which  in  such  natures  as  hers 
passes  with  themselves  for  shrewdness.     "And  we 
are  Orthodox.    Joseph's  father  was  the  Rev.  Haggai 
Luke,  you  know.     I  did  n't  expect  much  from  a  Uni- 
tarian.    Oh,  Governor  Masscon,  Governor  Masscon! 
I  expected  everything  from  you  !    You  came  of  pious 
stock  yourself.     You  were  more  like  us  once  —  in 
your  young  days  —  I  thought  you  would  understand 
the  case ;  I  thought  ijou  would  be  sorry  for  Joseph. 
He  has  been  in  prison,"  she  cried  shrilly,  "  for  nine 
years.     Just  think  of  that !  and  he  has  n't  anybody 
but  me  in  this  world.     Even  his  wife  has  deserted 
him.     Miranda  was  a  frivolous  thing.     I've  (/ot  to 
get  him  out !      I  've  got  to  come  here  !      I  've   got 
to  get  him  out  before  I  die  —  I  sha'n't   live   three 
years  more,"  she  added  gently.     "  It 's  this  trouble 
I  have  at  the  heart,  I  think.     I  don't  mind  it  very 


THE  LAW  AND   THE  GOSPEL.  429 

much  except  for  that ;  I  wanted  to  see  him  a  free 
man  —  only  for  twenty-four  hours  before  I  died.  We 
meant  to  have  a  little  home  together ;  if  it  was  only 
two  rooms  —  just  for  twenty  -  four  hours  before  I 
died  !  You  can't  think  how  I  pray  for  that  —  every 
morning  —  every  night.  Sometimes,"  she  said,  stop- 
ping short,  "  I  pray  till  I  'm  sickJ' 

Her  hand  wandered  to  her  heart,  and  fell  on  her 
lap.  Her  lips  had  gone  so  blue  that  the  governor 
glanced  at  her  uncomfortably.  He  rose  to  ring  for 
his  wife,  or  for  a  maid ;  the  woman  really  had  a 
deadly  look ;  but  a  feeble  motion  of  the  old  mended 
gloves  restrained  him. 

"  I  don't  ask  much,"  she  pleaded,  "  only  one  more 
hearing  —  only  to  remit  his  sentence  by  two  years. 
He  will  be  entitled  to  his  one  year,  anyhow,  for  good 
conduct.  He  is  such  a  good  boy  now.  Perhaps  you 
don't  understand,  sir,  how  good  a  prisoner  he  is.  He 
is  very  sorry  for  what  he  did,"  she  added  simply ; 
"  he  told  me  so.  Besides,  Mr.  Governor,  Joseph  is 
another  man.  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  he  has 
met  with  a  change." 

She  used  the  old  ecclesiastical  phrase  so  solemnly, 
with  such  a  beautiful  reverence  of  voice  and  man- 
ner, that  Governor  Masscon  did  not  smile.  Perhaps 
this  was  because  he  too,  as  she  said,  had  been  once 
educated  to  respect  such  phrases,  and  the  sacred  re- 
alities which  they  represented.  Experienced  in  the 
darker  education  of  his  office,  used  to  every  trick 
and  wile  invented  by  crime  to  play  upon  executive 
clemency,  he  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  jeer  at  the 
simple  faith  of  a  broken-hearted  mother  in  the  peni- 
tence of  a  disgraced  son. 


430  THE  LAW  AND   THE  GOSPEL. 

His  own  eyes  dimmed. 

"  I  hope  so,"  he  said  gently.  "  Such  things  do 
happen  —  sometimes.  But  you  must  remember  that 
the  law  does  not  take  cognizance  of  a  man's  private 
religious  experience  in  —  ah  —  such  a  condition  as 
your  son's.     How  is  his  health,  madam  ?  " 

"  He  is  better,"  answered  Mrs.  Luke,  in  a  low 
tone. 

What  these  three  words  cost  the  woman,  only  the 
Maker  of  her  honorable  conscience  could  have  under- 
stood. She  would  have  died  on  the  spot  to  be 
able  to  say  that  the  prisoner  was  ill ;  that  he  was  ill 
enough  to  justify  the  mercy  of  the  law,  often  granted 
to  sick  prisoners  whose  time  is  nearly  served.  But, 
with  trembling,  broken  voice,  she  told  —  as  she  was 
used  —  the  holy  truth. 

Perhaps  it  did  her  cause  no  harm,  for  an  expres- 
sion of  appreciation  moved  over  the  governor's  face. 

''There  Avas  a  plea,  I  think,"  he  urged,  "an  effort 
to  free  him  once,  on  the  ground  of  sickness  ?  " 

"That  was  in  Governor  Adams's  time,"  replied 
the  mother  wearily.  "We  thought  he  was  dying. 
They  might  have  pardoned  him,  if  he  had  not  got 
better.     But  he  did." 

"  How  did  he  happen  to  get  better  —  if  he  was  so 
ill  ?  "  demanded  the  governor,  more  sternly. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  we  sent  him  the  cream." 

"  Cream  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir.  The  cream  for  his  cough.  It  cost  fifty 
cents  a  day.  But  I  was  out  nursing  then.  I  earned 
more  than  I  do  seAving.  I  was  stronger.  One  of  Mr. 
Luke's  old  parishioners  helped  me  a  little,  and  a 
third  cousin  of  Joseph's  met  the  expense  for  two 


THE  LAW  AND   THE  GOSPEL.  431 

weeks.  We  sent  the  cream  for  six  months.  The 
deputy  warden  put  it  in  his  own  ice-chest ;  he  was  a 
kind  man.  So  Joseph  got  over  the  cough.  I  tell  you 
just  as  it  was,  Mr.  Governor.  Joseph  suffers  a  great 
deal,  but  he  is  not  dying.  I  can  see  that  he  fails  in 
strength  from  year  to  year  ;  but  I  cannot  say  that  I 
do  not  expect  him  to  live  till  his  term  is  up." 

"  Mrs.  Luke  !  "  said  the  governor  impulsively,  "  I 
respect  you,  madam  ;  and  I  am  sorry  for  you  with  all 
my  heart." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  she  said  drearily ;  "  but  I  'd 
rather  you  'd  be  sorry  for  Joseph.  —  Will  you  be  so 
good  as  to  tell  me  the  time,  sir  ?  It  is  visiting  day 
at  the  prison,  you  know.  I  must  get  the  ten  o'clock 
car,  sir.  I  can't  possibly  miss  that.  I  would  n't  have 
disturbed  you  so  early,  if  it  was  n't  visiting  day.  I 
thought  —  I  did  n't  know  —  if  there  was  any  hope  — 
if  I  could  have  told  him  anything  to-day  !  You  see 
how  it  is.  It 's  more  than  I  can  bear  to  go  to  my 
poor  boy  Avithout  one  word  to  comfort  him."  Her 
voice  broke ;  and  the  first  tear  which  he  had  seen  on 
her  aged  cheeks  during  the  whole  interview  trickled 
slowly  down  a  haggard  wrinkle.  She  had  a  refined, 
small  face,  and  might  have  been  a  pretty  woman 
once.     She  was  a  pitiable  woman  now. 

''  She  is  half  starved,  —  half  frozen,  —  heart- 
broken, —  and  dying,"  thought  the  Governor.  His 
round  face  contracted  painfully.  He  felt  a  stricture 
in  his  throat.  At  that  moment  he  would  rather  have 
been  superintendent  in  the  Whisk  Broom  Factory 
than  Governor  of  the  grandest  State  in  the  Union, 
Avith  the  pardoning  power  in  his  hand,  and  the  law 
behind  his  back.     His  was  not  a  pardoning  adminis- 


432  THE  LAW  AND  THE  GOSPEL. 

tration.  There  had  been  too  much  of  that,  and  the 
tide  was  running  low  the  other  way  just  now.  Had 
a  man  wished  to  make  himself  thoroughly  unpopular 
in  that  Christian  State,  ho  could  not  have  selected  a 
surer  or  swifter  means  to  the  end  than  the  pardon 
of  an  important  felon.  A  blunder  or  two  in  this  line 
had  embittered  public  feeling,  and  a  few  atrocious 
crimes  had  pushed  the  subject  into  politics. 

The  governor's  lips  moved,  to  make  the  petitioner 
some  merciful  answer,  the  best  paltry  comfort  that 
he  could  invent  ;  some  kindly,  cruel,  idle  words. 

But  at  that  moment,  a  commotion  in  the  hall 
startled  and  diverted  him. 

The  bell  rang  violently.  A  fine  young  fellow 
bounded  in;  his  serter  and  luggage  tumbled  after 
him ;  the  wet  dog  tramped  familiarly,  unrebuked, 
over  the  Axminster  carpet.  There  were  cries  of  wel- 
come, and  the  sound  of  warm  kisses,  and  boisterous, 
boyish  words,  and  melting,  motherly  tenderness  — 
and  a  little  whirl  of  delight  and  love  stormed  through 
the  governor's  palace. 

"  Excuse  me,  madam,"  said  the  governor,  with  a 
flush  of  vivid  joy,  "my  sou  has  just  returned  from 
college." 

In  the  confusion,  everybody  forgot  the  old  lady, 
and  she  melted  away,  afterward  no  one  recalled  ex- 
actly how.  She  went  down  the  long  freestone  steps 
slowly.     Her  hand  clung  to  the  railing  for  support. 

She  tried  to  gather  her  dress  from  her  wet  gaiters, 
but  she  could  not  grasp  it.  She  crawled  down,  and 
stood  for  a  moment  in  the  slush,  looking  about  her 
uncertainly.  Her  aged  face  was  drawn  tightly,  like 
a  mask,  rigid  and  gray.   Her  breath  came  short.    She 


THE  LAW  AND   THE  GOSPEL.  433 

put  lier  hand  to  her  heart,  and  tried  to  steady  her- 
self. The  white  snow  had  turned  blue-black  before 
her  whirling  eyes.  She  crept  on  a  little  way,  and, 
groping  for  a  lamp-post,  held  to  it, 

"  Mr.  Harold,"  whispered  the  inestimable  Thomas? 
beckoning  mysteriously  to  the  collegian,  at  the  break- 
fast-room door,  "  I  'd  be  obliged  if  you  was  to  break 
it  to  your  father  and  mother  that  the  person  who 's 
ben  a-callin'  on  the  Governor  has  just  dropped 
dead  in  front  of  the  house." 

When  she  came  to  her  life,  she  stared  about  her 
stupidly.  She  lay  on  a  wonderful  bed,  in  an  incredi- 
ble room.  Luxuries  of  whose  mere  existence  she 
had  never  conceived  blurred  before  her  eyes  —  the 
simple  conditions  of  daily  existence  to  these  fortu- 
nate, kind-hearted  people.  Mrs.  Masscon  herself  sat 
beside  the  poor  woman,  with  a  sympathetic  finger-tip 
upon  her  pulse.  The  voice  of  the  Governor's  own 
distinguished  physician  was  heard  in  the  hall. 

"  Ah,"  murmured  the  old  lady,  raising  herself 
weakly,  "you  did  not  send  me  to  the  hospital  ?  I 
did  not  know  you  were  people  like  that."  She  sank 
back  upon  the  lace-trimmed  pillows. 

"  I  don't  see  but  you  are  just  like  folks,  after  all," 
she  added.  Suddenly,  full  remembrance  came.  She 
sprang,  gasping,  to  her  feet. 

"  What  time  is  it  ?  "  she  cried  sharply.  ''  What 
o'clock  is  it  ?  —  Half-past  ten  ?  Oh,  I  've  lost  my 
train,  my  only  train  !  There  is  n't  any  other  goes  to 
the  prison.  Visiting  hours  will  be  over.  We  ain't 
allowed  to  go  but  once  in  two  months.     At  first,  it 


434  THE  LAW  AND  THE  GOSPEL. 

was  only  once  in  three.  I  've  been  lyin'  here  with 
that  heart  attack  a  whole  hour,  and  I  've  lost  my 
train  to  the  prison.  Oh,  madam,  have  mercy  on  me 
and  tell  me  how  to  bear  it !  If  it  was  your  son, 
madam  —  that  fine  young  fellow  —  and  I  've  never 
failed  him  once,  not  once  before,  in  all  these  years. 
Uain  or  shine,  or  sick  or  well,  I  've  got  there  somehow. 
What  will  he  think  ?  What  will  he  do  ?  And  I 
can't  write  even  to  tell  him,  even  to  exjolain  it  till 
next  week.  We  can't  even  write  to  'em  only  once  a 
week,  and  that 's  only  lately.  It  seems  as  if  I  were 
out  of  my  senses.  Madam,  be  patient  with  me," 
said  the  old  lady,  with  sudden  self  -  possession.  "  I 
beg  your  pardon.  I  have  been  very  troublesome  to 
you.  I  thank  you,  and  I  will  go  now ;  I  must  not 
burden  you  any  longer.  You  could  n't  help  it ;  you 
have  been  kind  to  me.  Nobody  is  to  blame ;  it  is 
the  will  of  God.     By  and  by  I  shall  bear  it  better." 

She  staggered,  and  walked  across  the  room,  feel- 
ing for  the  door  like  a  person  gone  blind.  On  the 
threshold  she  turned  and,  with  a  trustful,  feminine 
instinct,  asked  that  other  woman  to  help  arrange  her 
disordered  dress.  Was  not  her  bonnet  crooked,  and 
crushed  by  the  fall  ?  Her  veil  was  muddy,  she 
thought.  Did  she  look  decent  now  ?  Was  she  tidy  ? 
Should  she  straighten  it  —  so  ? 

"  I  would  n't  like  to  go  out  there  looking  unlady- 
like,''^ she  said  gently.  '•'  I  shall  go  out  and  see  the 
outside  of  the  prison.  I  can  get  so  near  as  that.  He 
might  be  at  work  near  one  of  the  windows,  and  see 
me,  you  know.  I  would  n't  want  to  go  looking 
shabby.     I  ivotcld  nH  want  to  disgrace  my  son  !  " 

"  Stay,"  said   the    Governor's    wife,   with  broken 


THE  LAW  AND  THE  GOSPEL.  435 

voice.     "  Wait   one   moment.    /  will   see   that  you 
reach  the  prison  —  before  visiting  hours  are  over." 

The  Governor's  horses,  splashing  through  the 
slush  and  mud,  made  a  fine  record  that  December 
day,  in  spite  of  the  Governor's  coachman,  who  dis- 
approved of  his  orders,  and  obeyed  them  under  pro- 
test. It  was  a  good  ten-mile  pull ;  but  in  fifty-seven 
minutes  the  coach  drew  up  in  sight  of  the  State 
Prison,  a  lonely  building,  rising,  sullen  and  dark,  a 
fortress  on  the  pacific,  suburban  horizon  Avhich  was 
supposed  to  render  escape  diificult  and  identification 
easy. 

The  old  minister's  widow  sat  within  the  satin- 
cushioned,  sachet-scented  coach,  a  bewildered,  soli- 
tary passenger.  She  looked  out  at  the  gravel-pits 
and  rows  of  birches  broken  by  the  last  ice  storm. 
She  held  her  wet  skirts  around  her  shaking  limbs 
that  they  might  not  touch  the  plush  and  broadcloth 
robe.  She  did  not  lean  back  against  the  malachite- 
colored  satin  covering,  "  lest  she  should  hurt  it." 
She  looked  out  of  the  carriage  windows  with  blurr- 
ing eyes.  Her  lips  moved.  She  said  :  "  God  bless 
her."^ 

Upon  that  journey  in  that  carriage  she  fell  into 
political  reflection,  —  the  first  in  her  simple  life  :  — 

"  This  is  a  great  country.  Folks  ought  to  know 
it.  Governors  are  people.  If  folks  understood  how 
it  is  they  wouldn't  complain  of  their  betters.  I 
must  explain  how  it  is.     It  is  a  great  country." 

"But,  my  dear!''''  gasped  the  Governor.  "The 
ofiicial  coach  seen  at  the  prison  —  under  such  cir- 


436  THE  LAW  AND  THE  GOSPEL. 

cumstances  !  The  episode  is  unprecedented.  If  you 
had  consulted  me  —  I  don't  know  what  my  con- "  — 

*'  Your  constituents  have  never  yet  elected  me  !  " 
said  Mrs.  Masscon,  with  her  charming  decision  of 
manner.  ''  I  don't  see  that  it  is  their  business  where 
I  send  my  own  carriage  —  for  it  Avas  n't  the  Gov- 
ernor's coach.  I  had  no  intention  of  consulting  you, 
my  love.  All  I  intended  was  to  get  that  old  lady 
out  to  see  her  son  in  season.     Your  constituents  "  — 

''  Confound  my  constituents  ! "  said  the  Governor 
unexpectedly. 

His  wife  smiled  peacefully.  She  did  not  tell  him 
that  she  had  offered  the  coachman  three  dollars  to 
make  the  trip  on  time. 

It  was  beginning  to  rain,  and  the  morning  was 
well  worn  away.  It  had  been  a  gray  day  at  the 
start.  Now,  on  the  wings  of  the  storm,  twilight 
had  swept  into  the  prison  before  midday. 

Joseph  Luke,  Convict  Number  223,  recently  pro- 
moted to  be  superintendent  of  the  picture-frame 
Avorkshop,  cast  nervous  glances  at  the  high  windows 
between  whose  black  bars  a  glimpse  of  the  soaking 
road  and  dreary  horizon,  of  gravel  -  pits  and  broken 
birch-trees,  could  be  gained  if  one  knew  just  where 
to  stand  and  precisely  how  to  look  for  it. 

The  other  prisoners  glanced  at  Luke  with  that 
low  delight  in  the  disappointment  of  a  man  whom 
they  had  found  themselves  usually  occupied  in  en- 
vying which  is  characteristic  of  their  kind  and 
of  their  lot.  The  red-headed  convict  (whose  very 
name  was  Damm),  who  was  up  for  the  most  abomi- 
nable crime  on  the  statute-book,  and  who  had  been 


THE  LA  W  AND  THE  GOSPEL.  437 

docketed  as  Luke's  messmate  for  a  month  past, 
made  audible  comments  which  sent  the  color  hotly 
to  Luke's  sunken  face.  But  the  mild  little  prisoner 
with  the  frightened  eyes,  sentenced  to  life  for  mur- 
dering his  mother-in-law  with  a  carpet-sweeper  when 
he  was  drunk,  comforted  the  overseer,  in  his  fash- 
ion, as  well  as  he  could  :  — 

"  She  hain't  never  missed  comin',  not  once.  She 
would  n't  go  back  on  you.  Must  be  something  hap- 
pened to  her." 

"  Yes,  yes.  Lamb,"  said  Joseph  Luke,  with  an  en- 
treating gesture ;  he  could  not  talk ;  he  was  more 
overcome  than  he  could  bear  to  show  in  the  work- 
shop. It  had  never  occurred  to  him  that  his  mother 
could  miss  a  visiting  day.  Nobody  else  came  to  see 
him.  In  all  the  free  and  reputable  world  she  who 
bore  him  was  his  only  friend  ;  he  had  counted  upon 
her  as  children  when  they  are  hurt  do  upon  their 
mother's  kisses. 

He  was  a  man  still  in  the  prime  of  life  ;  he  had 
been  sentenced  at  thirty.  He  had  the  chest  of  a 
consumptive,  but  the  muscle  of  a  person  quite  able, 
under  suitable  conditions,  to  overcome  his  diathesis. 
As  a  free  man,  with  a  clear  conscience,  he  would 
have  lived  a  comfortable,  equable,  not  too  sensitive 
life,  and  have  drawn  in  a  considerable  share  of 
human  happiness.  I  was  going  to  say  "swooped 
in,"  for  the  expression  somehow  came  naturally  with 
a  first  glance  at  the  man.  At  the  second  a  gentler 
phrase  would  succeed.     He  was  greatly  broken. 

He  had  been  an  educated  man ;  and  the  prison 
had  done  its  work  accordingly.  He  had  been  a  rich 
man,  but  that  proved  to  be,  rather  to  his  surprise,  a 


438  THE  LAW  AND   THE  GOSPEL. 

secondary  fact  in  the  sequence.  It  gave  him  some 
relief  to  remember  that  he  had  once  honestly  ac- 
quired the  luxuries  which  he  fell  to  retain ;  but  the 
mere  surfaces  of  a  life  of  ease  had  gone  to  ashes 
more  readily  in  this  nine  years'  hell  than  the  in- 
structed intelligence.  It  had  been  easier  to  see 
the  impulses  of  what  he  used  to  call  social  posi- 
tion crunched  between  the  iron  teeth  of  his  grated 
window  than  to  crush  the  instincts  of  cultivated 
thought.  It  took  him  some  time  to  discover  this  ; 
but  when  he  had  found  it  out  he  said  to  himself : 
"Herein  lies  my  real  incarceration."  He  was  a 
greedy  reader,  passionately  feeding  upon  everything 
that  he  could  get  hold  of  in  the  name  of  a  book.  In 
nine  years  he  had  read  enough  in  that  cell  to  have 
made  a  scholar  of  him,  had  he  had  the  scholar's 
nature  or  a  freeman's  opportunity.  As  he  read,  in 
his  fashion  he  thought.  This  was  itself  a  new  ex- 
perience. He  had  been  one  of  those  comfortable 
men  who  prance  through  life  with  apparent  aims, 
but  little  real  reflection.  He  had  gone  waltzing 
from  his  father's  country  parsonage  to  the  first  uni- 
versity in  the  country,  thence  to  the  first  great  rail- 
road in  the  section ;  had  married  the  Treasurer's 
daughter,  won  the  confidence  of  the  corporation  (he 
was  a  handsome,  lovable  fellow),  become  Assistant 
Treasurer,  "  boomed  "  the  Eoad,  played  with  it,  al- 
most ruined  it,  and  bowed  to  its  sentence.  For  the 
Road  condemned  him.  When  his  embezzlement 
was  discovered,  he  had  offered  all  his  private  prop- 
erty, including  the  house  which  he  held  in  his  own 
name,  and  pleaded  "  For  God's  sake  and  his  mo- 
ther's," to  be  allowed  to  work  out  restitution  in  si- 


THE  LAW  AND  THE  GOSPEL.  439 

lenc.e,  and  without  penal  disgrace.  He  had  asked 
nothing  in  his  own  name,  nor  in  that  of  his  wife, 
who,  upon  the  day  when  the  facts  were  made  known 
to  her,  had  returned  to  her  father's  house.  But  the 
defalcation  was  enormous ;  it  was  publicly  reported 
at  nearly  half  a  million,  and  probably  reached  at 
least  half  the  size  of  the  report ;  and  the  Eoad,  a 
raging  victim  of  the  cleverest  brain  that  had  ever 
handled  its  books,  called  upon  the  law  by  all  the 
furies  to  avenge  it.  At  a  suggestion  of  clemency, 
the  President  was  said  to  have  sworn  the  wittiest 
and  wickedest  oath  of  his  life,  which  became  the 
after-dinner  bon  mot  of  the  directors  for  many  a 
grim  day.  Feeling  ran  to  a  wild  height.  For  fif- 
teen years  no  man  had  added  to  the  annals  of  crime, 
in  that  State,  a  case  more  hopeless  of  public  mercy 
or  more  destitute  of  private  sympathy.  Even  a 
"  pardoning  Governor  "  might  scarcely  have  dared 
so  much  as  to  cast  his  gentle  eye  in  Joseph  Luke's 
direction. 

"Never  mind,  dear,  I'll  make  it  all  up  to  you," 
his  mother  had  said  once,  in  one  of  those  heart- 
throbs, we  might  say  heart-throes  of  feminine  ten- 
derness which  the  finest  man  in  the  world  does  not 
know  how  to  treat.  Joseph  Luke  was  not  that  man, 
and  he  had  answered  wearily,  closing  his  eyes,  and 
leaning  his  head  back  against  the  prison  wall.  The 
old  lady  felt  indefinably  hurt ;  but  she  did  not  tell 
him  so.  She  only  went  away  a  little  earlier  than 
usual,  not  staying  quite  to  the  limit  of  her  time. 

In  those  first  years  it  is  to  be  feared  that  he  had 
often  been  impatient  with  her.  Men  will,  with 
the  women  they  love  above  all  earthly  things.     She 


440  THE  LAW  AND  THE  GOSPEL. 

always  excused  him.  She  said :  "  Poor  fellow  ^  he 
gets  so  nervous  in  there.  Who  can  wonder  ? " 
She  never  resented  any  of  the  moods  which  impris- 
onment wrought  upon  the  wretched  man ;  they 
were  not  always  easy  to  bear. 

She  counted  it  her  great  mercy  that  for  a  year  or 
two  past  she  had  found  him  more  equable,  quite  gen- 
tle, and  thoughtful  of  her.  He  had  grown  to  lean 
greatl}'"  upon  her,  with  a  childish  dependence  that 
was  pathetic  to  see;  he  hungered  and  thirsted  for 
her ;  he  met  her  affectionately ;  he  lavished  loving 
words  \ipon  her,  and  little  signs  and  touches  —  the 
things  that  women  will  die  for ;  or  live  for,  which 
is  saying  vastly  more.  He  had  begun  to  recognize 
her  supreme  devotion,  and  to  repay  it  with  the  poor 
coin  of  his  broken  nature. 

When  the  old  lady  said  that  he  had  "  met  with  a 
change,"  the  phrase  had  a  perfectly  definite  mean- 
ing to  her;  and  if,  in  all  religious  phraseology,  it 
meant  half  as  much,  what  she  called  "  the  world  " 
would  begin  to  respect  it. 

It  lacked  fifteen  minutes  of  the  close  of  visiting 
hours,  and  the  prison  had  quite  given  the  old  lady 
lip.  Luke  himself  had  abandoned  all  hope  of  seeing 
her  an  hour  ago.  She  had  always  been  the  first  vis- 
itor to  stand  waiting  before  the  opening  bars,  and 
hers  the  last,  longing  face  which  they  shiit  out. 
The  convict  overseer  bowed  his  head  over  the  clumsy 
work  of  a  new  inmate  (a  whistling  burglar),  thus  hid- 
ing his  blanched  cheeks  a  little  from  the  curiosity  of 
the  prisoners  ani  guards ;  he  trembled  in  every 
nerve ;  he  felt  sick  enough  to  fall  to  the  stone  floor 
like  a  fainting  woman.     The  gilding   brush  in  his 


THE  LAW  AND  THE  GOSPEL.  441 

hand  shook  and  spattered  the  coarse  walnut  moulding 
in  the  wrong  place ;  he  laid  the  frame  down. 

"I  —  can't  teach  you,  to-day,  Picket,  I  am  not  — 
I  have  not  been  "  — 

At  this  moment  the  chaplain  touched  him  on  the 
shoulder.  The  chaplain  was  fond  of  Joseph  Luke, 
in  whom  he  believed  himself  to  have  found  a  pet 
convert,  at  all  events  a  sincere  and  sorry  man  ;  and 
the  chaplain  had  been  in  office  seventeen  years  ;  he 
had  grown  shrewd  as  well  as  holy  in  that  barren 
field  where  the  sacred  grain  sprouted  so  slowly ;  it 
was  not  easy  to  dupe  him.  The  chaplain  said 
gently :  — 

"  Come.  She  is  here  —  after  all.  She  looks 
pretty  tired.  I  would  meet  her  quietly  if  I  were 
3-ou." 

The  day  being  so  dark  and  wet,  and  the  hour  so 
late,  visitors  were  fewer  than  usual ;  the  last  one 
had  left  the  visitors'  room.  This  was  a  school-boy 
who  came  to  see  his  father.  The  old  man  had 
forged  a  check  to  pay  a  surgeon's  bill  for  an  acci- 
dent to  the  lad  at  foot-ball.  His  son  was  ashamed 
of  him,  but  he  came  sometimes,  asked  a  few  proper 
questions,  and  went  coldly  away. 

The  old  prisoner  was  passing  through  the  door 
as  Luke  entered  it ;  he  was  wiping  his  eyes.  Joseph 
put  out  his  hand,  unnoticed,  and  stroked  the  old 
man  on  the  sleeve.  Once  he  would  not  have  thought 
to  do  that. 

So  it  came  about  that  the  son  and  the  mother 
were  alone  in  the  visitors'  room.  This  was  a  rare 
and  precious  circumstance. 

He  remembered  what  the  chaplain  had  said,  and 


442  THE  LA  yv  AND  THE  GOSPEL. 

tried  not  to  agitate  lier ;  but  his  panting  breath  came 
as  weakly,  ahnost,  as  her  own.  She  stood  swaying 
before  him,  white,  transparent,  and  smiling.  Almost 
any  other  woman  would  have  fallen  or  sobbed  ;  but 
she  never  cried  at  the  prison,  —  she  waited  till  she 
got  away.  She  called  that  "  keeping  up,"  for  "  his 
sake."  He  put  his  arm  about  her  tenderly  and  got 
her  to  a  bench,  and  sat  down  beside  her.  In  nine 
years  he  had  never  seen  her  look  like  this.  A  spasm 
of  agonized  divination  crossed  his  face.  He  under- 
stood perfectly  that  she  had  been  dangerously  ill, 
but  he  knew  that  she  did  not  mean  to  tell  him  so. 

"I  was  —  delayed.  I  —  couldn't  help  it,  dear," 
she  breathed.  "  It  was  nothing  —  a  little  matter  — 
I  could  not  come." 

"  Yes,  Mother  ;  I  see  —  I  understand.  It  is  all 
right." 

"I  would  have  come  sooner  if  I  could,  Joseph. 
You  know  I  would,  don't  you  ?  You  know  it  was  a 
little  accident  —  something  I  could  n't  help." 

"  Yes,  Mother,  I  know.  Dear  Mother !  Dear 
Mother ! " 

Her  lip  trembled  at  the  tremulousness  and  tender- 
ness of  his  voice. 

"  I  thought  I  could  n't  get  here,"  she  gasped.  "  I 
lost  the  train  !  I  lost  the  train  for  the  first  time  in 
all  these  years." 

"  Such  things  will  happen  ;  but  it 's  all  right  now. 
There,  there,  dear  !  "  He  comforted  her,  and  patted 
the  old  Spanish  lace  scarf. 

"  Yes,  1  've  got  here  now.  I  won't  let  anj^thing 
happen  another  time,  Joseph,  to  make  me  late." 

"  Of  course  you   won't.     I  'm   sure   of    it.     God 


THE  LAW  AND   THE  GOSPEL.  443 

bless  you,  Mother !  You  've  never  missed  once. 
You  are  all  I  have.  You  keep  me  alive.  Body  and 
soul  you  keep  me  alive  in  this  awful  place." 

"  Thank  you,  dear."  She  gave  him  a  pathetic 
smile.  "  You  "re  a  good  boy,  Joseph.  You  comfort 
me.  You  are  my  only  son,  and  you  are  a  great  com- 
fort to  me." 

Thus  they  beguiled  each  other  with  the  divine  de- 
ceit of  love.  If  neither  was  deceived,  neither  said 
so,  and  the  tender  hypocrisy  soothed  them  both. 

''  You  don't  ask  how  I  got  here,"  urged  the  old 
lady,  rousing  herself  suddenly.  She  began  to  laugh, 
and  to  make  merriment  of  her  sad  eyes.  This  she 
called  "cheering  him  up." 

"  Guess ! "  she  cried,  pulling  off  her  mended 
glove  nervously  ;  she  had  taken  off  her  veil  and  the 
darned  lace  scarf ;  her  bonnet  seemed  more  awry 
than  usual,  and  her  hair  Avas  blown  about  her  wrin- 
kled forehead ;  she  was  a  very  neat  old  lady,  and 
she  kept  pulling  at  things  and  pushing  things  away 
to  straighten  them. 

"  I  came  in  the  Governor's  carriage  ! "  She  re- 
vealed this  startling  fact  with  a  pretty,  feminine 
motion  of  the  head  that  might  have  made  her  charm- 
ing when  she  was  young. 

"Oh  —  you've  seen  the  Governor  again,  then." 
The  prisoner's  face  became  suffused,  and  then 
turned  gray.  To  the  incident  of  the  carriage  he 
seemed  quite  oblivious.  It  was  the  least  trifle  in 
the  tremendous  fact.  If  the  executive  clemency  had 
been  tested  again  and  had  been  again  denied  him  — 

"  You  should  n't  have  gone.  Mother  ! "  he  said 
sharply.     It  was  his  only  hard  word  to  her  that  day. 


444  THE  LAW  AND  THE  GOSPEL. 

Anguish  wrung  it  from  him  ;  let  ns  forgive  him  — 
as  she  did. 

"  Women  cannot  understand  these  things,"  he 
said,  trembling.  ''You  may  make  a  fatal  blunder. 
You  ought  to  let  the  case  alone." 

"  But  it  was  Jier  carriage  ! "  protested  the  old  lady. 
"  She  sent  me  out  in  it  herself.  She  is  just  like 
any  other  Christian,  bless  her  !  She  said  she  'd  get 
me  here  before  visiting  hours  were  over." 

"  They  are  over  now,"  said  Luke,  recovering  him- 
self, and  speaking  with  dreary  gentleness.  "  There 
comes  the  guard  to  say  so.  Our  time  is  short  to- 
day, mother.  Forgive  me,  Mother.  Never  mind 
the  carriage.  I  didn't  mean  that.  It's  all  right. 
Kiss  me  good-by.  —  There.  Once  more.  —  There, 
there.  Mother  dear !  See !  Don't  grieve,  little 
Mother.  Write  me  all  about  it.  All  I  ask  is,  don't, 
don't  go  to  the  Governor  again  without  my  know- 
ledge. You  don't  understand  how  these  things  have 
to  be  managed.  My  lawyer  will  know  best.  Don't 
make  these  feminine  emotional  moves.  They  may 
work  incalculable  harm.  I  '11  write  to  Gibson,  my- 
self —  go  and  see  Gibson.  Don't  act  on  your  own 
hook  —  don't !  What  did  the  Governor  say  ?  —  No. 
Don't  tell  me.  I  see.  I  understand.  There  is  no 
hope  ;  not  a  ray  of  it,  from  Masscon.  You  must  see 
that.  You  must  accept  that  fact,  and  be  guided  by 
the  judgment  of  men  who  understand  the  world,  and 
politics  —  and  the  public  currents  that  eddy  about 
the  subject  of  crime.  Women  can't  be  expected  to 
comprehend  these  matters.  Therefore  they  should 
let  them  alone." 

While  he  spoke,  with  great  self-restraint  but  with 


THE  LAW  AND  THE  GOSPEL.  4:45 

the  passionate,  intelligent  masculine  emphasis  that 
had  always  controlled  her  since  he  was  a  little  fel- 
low and  she  had  let  him  have  his  "  way,"  her  aged 
face  fell  heavily.  She  looked  more  puzzled  than 
hurt ;  but  a  certain  feminine  obstinacy,  settling 
gently  upon  her  eyes  and  mouth,  replied  to  him. 
He  noticed  this,  and  smiled  sadly.  If  she  had  ruined 
his  cause  he  would  not  undeceive  her.  He  patted 
her  cheek,  and  gently  supported  her  to  the  door. 

"  My  chances  are  up,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  They 
are  all  up.  I  get  no  pardon  from  this  Administra- 
tion." 

He  did  not  ask  her  what  the  Governor  said,  but 
bade  her  good-by  lovingly  and  silently ;  and  she 
went  out. 

As  she  passed  the  threshold  he  called  her  back. 
The  indulgent  guard  winked  pleasantly,  and  delayed 
to  let  her  come. 

Luke  was  a  favorite  in  the  jail  —  a  good  prisoner, 
obeying  with  the  fidelity  and  the  docility  of  intelli- 
gence. He  gained  an  extra  moment  without  diffi- 
culty, and,  restraining  his  mother  for  the  space  of  it, 
whispered  something  in  her  ear. 

"  ISTo,"  she  said,  "  no.  I  have  not  seen  her.  Only 
that  once  I  told  you  of  —  in  her  carriage  —  going  to 
a  concert  of  a  sunny  afternoon." 

She  put  her  lips  together  stiffly,  and  said  no 
more.  It  was  a  long  time  since  he  had  inquired 
about  his  wife.  Mrs.  Luke  hoped  he  had  forgotten 
her.  She  could  not  help  it ;  she  always  felt  un- 
happy when  he  talked  of  Miranda  ;  a  little  blonde 
woman,  who  rouged,  and  left  her  husband  because 
he  was  in  trouble  —  a  petty  creature,  sobbing  in  ex- 


446  THE  LAW  AND  THE  GOSPEL. 

pensive  dresses  over  her  wrongs  and  her  miseries 
while  Joseph  Avas  in  jail. 

For  nine  years  the  wife  had  kept  her  long,  un- 
wifelike  silence.  She  had  never  broken  it  by  a  visit, 
by  a  letter,  by  a  message.  Not  a  thought  had  come 
from  her  to  the  unhappy  man  whose  name  she  bore. 
Not  a  sign  had  told  him  so  much  as  that  he  was  for- 
given. The  dumbness  of  scorn,  the  deafness  of 
death,  she  had  set  between  them  utterly  ;  he  had  not 
sought  to  break  it ;  and  what  he  thought  of  it,  or 
what  it  meant  to  him,  even  his  mother  did  not  know, 
and  dared  not  ask. 

She  thought  of  that  other  woman  with  a  hot  heart. 
It  gave  her  a  kind  of  jealousy  that  he  should  speak 
of  Miranda  —  a  doll ;  a  creature  who  could  desert 
him.  She  went  heavily  down  the  prison  steps  ;  she 
held  her  skirts  up  from  her  old  gaiters,  but  they 
were  soaked  through.  She  had  half  a  mile  to  walk 
to  the  station,  and  it  was  now  raining  violently. 
She  put  up  her  faded  umbrella  weakly,  tied  on  her 
veil,  and  bowed  her  head  to  the  storm.  One  of  her 
gaiters  slipped  down,  for  they  did  not  fit  very  well, 
and  she  leaned  against  a  broken  birch-tree  to  pull  it 
up.  The  prisoners  were  just  going  into  their  din- 
ner, rank  in  file,  two  by  two. 

"  Hi ! "  said  he  who  was  called  Damm,  " me  if 

that  ain't  the  old  lady,  yonder  !  " 

Luke  glanced  over  the  red  head  of  the  ruffian 
prisoner  through  the  long  bars.  He  could  just  see 
her  clutching  at  her  dripping  skirts,  and  trying  to 
hold  the  umbrella  (it  looked  like  the  very  one  his 
father  used  to  carry  to  prayer-meetings)  which  the 
storm    had    twisted    inside   out.     She    passed    the 


THE  LAW  AND  THE  GOSPEL.  447 

birches,  crossed  the  gravel-pits,  and  then  the  abom- 
inable prisoner  pushed  him  along  the  corridor. 

It  was  April,  and  a  blast  that  would  have  done 
credit  to  February  thrust  the  eminent  gentlemen  up 
the  steps  of  the  State  House  viciously,  as  if  it  had  a 
grudge  against  them,  or  against  the  object  of  the 
hearing.  For  the  hearing  was  a  foregone  conclu- 
sion now.  In  her  quiet,  obstinate  way,  the  old  lady 
made  up  her  mind  on  that.  All  the  winter,  Avhile 
she  crouched  over  her  sewing-machine,  in  the  chilly 
hall  bed-room  of  her  poor  boarding-house,  or  crawled 
to  and  fro  across  the  ice  from  grand  houses  where 
she  made  and  mended  carpets  —  she  had  resolved 
her  purpose  firmly,  fearlessly,  and  secretly.  For 
once  in  her  life  she  had  concluded  that  she  knew 
better  than  Joseph.  The  petition  should  go  in. 
Gibson,  his  lawyer,  should  take  it  in.  That  parish- 
ioner of  Mr.  Luke's  who  was  kind  to  her  should  head 
it.  The  third  cousin  should  sign  it.  There  should 
be  another  hearing.  She  was  quite  reserved  with  her 
son,  on  this  point,  evading  his  questions,  diverting 
his  anxietj'-,  and  feigning  inaction  and  despair. 

"  Don't  expect  a  pardon,  dear,"  she  had  said, ''  and 
you  will  bear  it  better.    It  is  only  three  years  more." 

She  thought  herself  diplomatic  in  the  extreme. 
Whatever  the  prisoner  thought,  he  had  dropped  the 
subject.  With  it,  so  nearly  as  could  be  learned,  he 
had  dropped  the  restlessness  of  hope.  He  grew 
very  quiet,  dull,  and  pale.  His  eye  wandered.  He 
spoke  little;  he  missed  writing  to  her  once  or 
twice  ;  he  grew  averse  to  reading  ;  he  sat  for  hours, 
with  his  head  sunk  upon  his  breast. 


448  THE  LAW  AND  THE  GOSPEL. 

The  April  gale  "  took  it  out  "  on  the  poor  old  lady 
—  she  blew  up  the  steps  so  much  more  easily  than 
the  unpetticoated  and  solid  politicians  who  preceded 
her,-  puffing,  to  the  Blue  Room,  which  the  wisest 
State  in  the  Union  sets  apart  in  her  State  House  for 
tragedies  like  these.  Mrs.  Luke  shrank  in,  late  and 
breathless.  In  fact  she  looked  so,  when  she  came 
to  the  top  of  the  second  flight  of  stairs,  that  the  old 
parishioner  gave  her  a  scared  glance,  and  got  her 
into  an  ante-chamber  behind  a  screen, 

"  She  is  in  no  condition  to  be  present  at  the  hear- 
ing," he  managed  to  send  word  to  the  Governor. 
"What  is  to  be  done  Avith  her  ?  She  's  liable  to  die 
on  the  spot.     How  shall  we  get  rid  of  her  ?  " 

"  Tell  her,"  said  the  Governor,  wrinkling  his 
round,  kind  face,  "  that  Governor  Masscon  thinks 
she  will  do  most  service  to  her  case  by  remaining 
where  she  is  until  he  calls  for  her." 

At  the  mention  of  the  gubernatorial  name  the  old 
lady  nodded  happily.  She  made  no  objection  or  re- 
sistance to  his  wishes  ;  obeying  humbly,  and  with  a 
childlike  trustfulness  which  was  pathetic  to  see. 
She  sat  down  alone  in  the  ante-room.  The  third 
cousin's  wife  would  have  accompanied  her,  but  an 
urgent  engagement  on  a  church  committee  unfortu- 
nately interfered.  The  doors  into  the  Blue  E,oom 
were  open.  The  screen  concealed  her ;  and  the  hear- 
ing, to  the  great  relief  of  the  Governor's  Council,  the 
lawyer,  and  the  old  parishioner,  opened  without  her. 

It  opened  promptly,  and  it  proceeded  briskly.  The 
Governor's  Council  had  their  minds  definitely  formed 
on  the  case,  and  intended  to  make  short  work  of  it. 
They  listened  to  the  petition  deferentially,  and  dis- 


THE  LAW  AND  THE  GOSPEL.  449 

posed  of  it  summarily  ;  tliey  were  bored,  not  to  say 
annoyed,  by  its  repetition  at  this  time. 

"  I  suppose,"  observed  the  Chairman  of  the  Par- 
don Committee,  "  that  this  particular  hearing  is  a 
matter  of  form,  and  the  sooner  over  the  better.  It 
is  an  old  case,  quite  familiar  to  this  and  other  Coun- 
cils, and  we  see  no  reason  to  change  the  results  of 
former  discussions.  It  strikes  me  as  a  work  of  time 
to  go  over  the  ground." 

"Allow  me,  sir  "  — began  the  prisoner's  lawyer. 

"  And  I  would  suggest  "  —  urged  the  old  parish- 
ioner. 

The  usual  hopeless  arguments  followed  in  the 
usual  hopeless  manner.  The  Council  listened  and 
drummed  on  the  table.  The  Chairman  of  the  Par- 
don Committee  drew  plans  for  his  seaside  villa  on  a 
page  of  his  note-book.  The  lawyer  stammered,  the 
third  cousin  looked  at  his  watch,  and  the  old  parish- 
ioner shook  his  head.  From  that  Anti-pardon  Ad- 
ministration it  was  clear  that  the  most  eminent  em- 
bezzler the  State  had  sentenced  for  thirteen  years 
could  look  for  no  executive  m.ercy.  The  pitiful  farce 
proceeded  as  was  to  be  expected,  and  was  rapidly 
approaching  its  conventional  end,  when  the  Governor 
unexpectedly  arose  and  walked  two  or  three  times 
nervously  across  the  room. 

"  Gentlemen  "  —  he  began  suddenly.  Then  came 
the  bomb-shell.  In  his  impetuous,  incisive  voice  he 
hurled  out  a  few  words  —  six  only,  but  they  started 
the  Blue  Eoom  to  its  feet. 

"  Impossible !  " 

"  Unprecedented ! " 

"  Most  indiscreet." 


450  THE  LAW  AND   THE  GOSPEL. 

"  Beyond  the  sympathy  of  the  Council." 

"  But,  Governor,  you  do  not  consider  "  — 

"I  have  considered,"  said  the  Governor  firmly; 
"  and  I  mean  the  thing  I  say." 

He  shut  his  lips  together  in  a  way  which  his  Coun- 
cil recognized.  He  was  the  easiest,  jolliest,  best- 
natured  man  in  the  world,  bon  camarade  to  every 
member  of  his  staff,  and  hail-fellow-well-met  with 
his  Council,  who  expected  to  control  him  three  quar- 
ters of  the  time.  On  the  fourth  occasion  they  might 
as  well  have  tried  to  manage  a  pyramid.  This 
proved  to  be  the  fourth. 

When  the  Council  looked  him  in  the  eye,  they  per- 
ceived that  their  camarade  had  vanished  from  the 
Blue  Boom.  The  official  glance  replied  to  them.  It 
was  as  keen  as  a  sword-thrust,  and  as  cool.  It  was 
the  Governor  of  the  Commonwealth  who  listened  to 
his  Council  (they  protested  for  some  time)  politely, 
with  gentlemanly  interest,  deferentially,  as  one  with 
a  high  regard  for  their  opinions  —  but  unmoved. 

The  Chairman  took  him  one  side,  and  got  him  be- 
fore a  window.  The  two  men  looked  down  on  the 
dreary,  driving,  striving  streets  for  a  moment  in  sig- 
nificant silence.  The  gale  was  blowing  the  citizens 
along  like  leaves.  It  was  Holy  Week,  and  the 
streets  were  unusually  full.  Seen  at  that  height,  in 
the  dust  and  struggle,  humanity  seemed  a  sad  thing. 

"  There  is  misery  enough  in  the  world,"  thought 
the  Governor.  The  power  to  give  joy  occurred  to 
him  at  that  moment  as  something  God-like.  It  ran 
through  his  veins  like  rapture. 

"  I  only  wished  to  remind  you,"  observed  the 
Chairman,  in  a  low,  strenuous  voice.     "  Of  course, 


THE  LAW  AND   THE  GOSPEL.  451 

your  Council  are  amenable  to  your  judgment  and 
wishes  —  but  I  think  it  my  duty  to  remind  you  that 
you  are  elected  by  an  Anti-pardon  party.  I  must 
recall  to  your  Excellency's  remembrance  the  pros- 
pects of  a  reelection.  It  might  be  a  pity  to  lose  it  — 
for  one  felon.  Permit  me  to  remind  you  of  your 
second  term.  Allow  me  to  observe  that  your  con- 
stituents "  — 

The  Governor's  face  flushed.  He  turned  sharply 
from  the  window,  and  paced  the  room  again,  for 
some  moments.  Xo  one  addressed  him.  The  Chair- 
man stroked  his  beard,  and  smiled  indulgently.  The 
Council  talked  of  bi-metalism,  with  well-executed  in- 
difference. The  law}' er  and  the  old  parishioner  hud- 
dled together,  consulting  in  disheartened  whispers. 

A  divine  drama  was  going  on  in  the  Blue  Room ; 
but  this  commonplace  scene  gave  no  signs  of  it ; 
perhaps  these  commonplace  spectators  had  no  con- 
sciousness of  it. 

A  slight,  almost  inaudible  sound  stirred  from  the 
ante-room,  and  stopped  ;  it  was  like  the  nibble  of 
some  helpless  creature  against  a  wall  of  stone. 

The  Governor  heard  it,  and  strode  over  the  cor- 
ridor. He  stood  before  the  screen  a  moment  before 
he  touched  it.     Then  he  swung  it  gently. 

The  old  lady  did  not  stir.  She  had  crawled  to  the 
bare  floor,  and  there  she  knelt.  Her  face  was  in 
her  hands,  her  hands  upon  the  wooden  chair.  Her 
lips  moved.  Ko  sound  came  from  them.  She  was 
praying.  From  earth  and  earthly  mercj^,  she  had 
abandoned  hope.     But  God  was  left. 

The  Governor  put  his  finger  on  his  lips,  and 
beckoned  to  his  Council.  Every  man  rose  to  his 
feet,  and  looked  at  her. 


452  THE  LAW  AND   THE  GOSPEL. 

The  Governor  replaced  the  screen  reverently,  and 
shut  the  door.  He  put  his  hand  upon  the  Chair- 
man's shoulder  and  distinctly  said  :  — 

" my  constituents  !  " 

On  the  wings  of  the  wind  the  lawyer  called  a 
hackney  coach.  He  and  the  old  parishioner  got  into 
the  carriage  with  her.  The  third  cousin  congratu- 
lated her,  and  ran  for  his  horse-car  to  meet  his  wife 
at  the  Good  Friday  vespers.  The  two  men  who  did 
not  run  were  very  nervous ;  they  were  afraid  she 
would  die  on  their  hands.  The  old  parishioner,  with 
unprecedented  personal  emphasis,  remarked :  — 

"  312/  wife  would  have  been  present  on  this  occa- 
sion if  she  had  n't  been  in  her  grave  for  nineteen 
years  ! " 

It  seemed  unfortunate  that  there  should  be  no 
other  woman  with  the  convict's  mother  just  then ; 
but  she  took  it  very  sweetly  and  uncomplainingly,  as 
she  did  most  things  which  befell  her. 

She  had  not  spoken  a  word.  Her  pallor  was 
alarming,  but  still  she  seemed  to  possess  a  certain 
marvelous  strength.  Her  breath  came  in  sickening- 
gasps,  but  her  hands  held  firmly  to  the  carriage 
strap.  Rapture  of  the  soul  and  agony  of  the  flesh 
fought  together  upon  her  aged  face  ;  but  the  look  of 
her  eyes  was  as  those  may  look  who  have  reached 
the  world  of  utter  blessedness.  These  unimaginative 
men  regarded  her  silently,  and  felt  puzzled.  The 
old  parishioner  passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead. 
Once  he  begged  her  to  "  keep  up,  for  Reverend  Mr. 
Luke's  sake,  madam,  your  poor  son's  deceased  fa- 
ther." 


THE  LAW  AND   THE  GOSPEL.  453 

When  they  reached  the  prison  it  was  thought  best 
for  her  to  see  him  quite  alone.  The  chapLain  bustled 
about  eagerly.  The  warden,  a  humane  man,  gave 
every  possible  order  for  the  comfort  of  the  old  lady 
in  this  trying  scene. 

Eumors  buzzed  through  the  prison  like  wasps.  In 
ten  minutes  four  hundred  and  thirteen  inmates  knew 
the  facts.  The  abominable  prisoner  related  them 
viciously  to  the  mild  murderer,  who  spilled  the  gild- 
ing when  he  heard  them.  The  old  forger  w^ept  when 
they  reached  his  deafened  ears.  But  Picket,  the 
burglar,  whistled  "  Old  Folks  at  Home." 

Guards  redoubled  their  attentions  to  the  prisoners. 
Any  excitement,  sad  or  glad,  was  dangerous  within 
those  dire  walls.  The  chaplain  was  pale  with  the 
occasion.  Every  officer's  eye  was  upon  Number  223 
when  he  passed  along  the  corridor,  well-guarded,  to 
his  cell. 

He  had  been  summoned  there  from  the  Avorkshop, 
on  some  pretext,  and  went  listlessly  enough.  He 
walked  feebly.  He  had  changed  much  that  winter. 
The  prison  physician  had  expressed  anxiety  about 
him.  He  coughed,  and  his  eye  was  vagrant  and 
subtle.     His  hands  hung  at  his  side. 

They  led  him  into  his  cell ;  and  there  he  found 
the  chaplain,  who  addressed  him  with  evident  emo- 
tion. 

"  Mr.  Luke,"  he  said.  The  convict  stirred  slightly 
at  the  prefix,  but  looked  dully  at  the  chaplain  —  "  Mr. 
Luke,  you  have  not  been  very  well  of  late,  and  the 
authorities  have  allowed  your  mother  to  come  and 
see  you." 

"It  is  not  visitors'  day,"  said  the  prisoner  apathet- 
ically. 


454  THE  LAW  AND  THE  GOSPEL. 

"  But  she  is  here,"  urged  the  chaplain ;  his  voice 
trembled.  "  She  is  to  come  and  see  you  for  a  little 
while." 

Joseph  Luke  rose,  with  the  mechanical  instinct  of 
long  captivity,  to  obey.     He  said  :  — 

"  Where  is  the  guard  ?  They  will  not  let  me  go 
to  the  visitors'  room  without  a  guard." 

The  chaplain's  eye  filled.  "  You  are  to  receive 
your  mother  here,"  he  said.  "  It  is  a  special  arrange- 
ment." 

When  he  turned  she  was  standing  behind  him  ; 
she  was  perfectly  self-possessed.  She  said :  "  Good- 
afternoon,  Joseph.  I  've  come  to  see  you  a  few  min- 
utes, my  dear." 

The  chaplain  bowed  and  passed  her.  He  went 
nervously  to  the  visitors'  room  and  found  the  law- 
yer and  the  old  parishioner,  and  sat  down  beside 
them,  and  took  off  his  spectacles,  and  said  they 
needed  a  new  lens,  and  put  them  on  again,  and  then 
covered  them  with  his  hands. 

"  Well,  Joseph,"  she  said,  "  are  n't  you  glad  to  see 
me?" 

"  They  have  forgotten  the  guard  !  "  he  muttered; 

"  I  came  out  with  Mr.  Gibson  and  your  father's 
old  deacon,  Joseph.  We  came  to  make  a  little  call 
on  you.  They  wanted  to  consult  you  about  a  peti- 
tion." 

"  Mother,"  he  said  half  complainingly,  "  we  are 
not  watched.  There  is  no  officer  here.  I  don't  un- 
derstand it." 

She  went  straight  up  to  him  then,  and  put  her 
trembling,  thin  old  arms  about  his  neck. 


THE  LA  \V  AND   THE  GOSPEL.  455 

"  Oh,  Joseph !  Try  to  bear  it !  "  she  said.  He 
scarcely  changed  color  at  her  broken  words,  but 
bowed  his  head  upon  his  breast. 

'•'  I  can  bear  it,  mother.  Don't  spare  me.  I  am 
quite  prepared.  I  knew  the  petition  would  fail.  I 
don't  blame  you  any,  mother.  We  must  make  the 
best  of  it.    It  was  to  be  expected." 

Then  she  cried  out  tumultuously  —  word  over  word 

—  gasp  after  gasp  —  sob  upon  sob :  — 

"  Bear  it,  Joseph  —  bear  it !  There  is  no  guard. 
Nobody  watches  us.  Nobody  ever  will,  any  more. 
The  petition  did  n't  fail.  Your  old  mother  was  n't 
so  silly  as  you  thought  her.     Try  to  bear  it,  Joseph 

—  try  to  bear  it  to  be  free  f  " 

The  railroad  station  was  throbbing  full,  for  it  was 
Saturday  afternoon.  It  was  full  to  over-brimming, 
for  it  was  the  busiest,  hopefulest  Saturday  in  the 
calendar. 

It  had  been  the  pleasant  fancy  of  the  governor  to 
bestow  all  that  joy  upon  Good  Friday,  and  his  ad- 
visers did  not  gainsay  him.  Wait  till  Thanksgiving, 
and  who  could  say  where  that  deathly  faced  old 
woman  would  be  ?  Thus  it  happened  that  the  offi- 
cial pardon  had  been  formally  extended  to  the  pris- 
oner upon  the  solemn  day  when  He  who  pitied  and 
considered  prisoners,  and  forgot  sin,  and  remem- 
bered repentance,  is  cherished  in  the  hearts  and 
minds  of  all  the  world. 

Joseph  Luke  had  chosen  to  remain  in  his  cell  till 
dawn  of  the  next  day.  On  the  breaking  of  the  morn- 
ing, before  the  prisoners  were  astir,  the  chaplain  had 
got  him  quietly  away,  and  had  himself  accompanied 


45G  THE  LAW  AND   THE  GOSPEL. 

the  pardoned  convict  into  the  city,  where  she  awaited 
them,  trembling,  sitting  on  her  packed  trunk  in  the 
cold  hall  bedroom.  The  chaplain  had  remained  by 
them,  meeting  every  responsibility  through  the  agi- 
tations of  the  day.  He  did  this  with  the  happy 
enthusiasm  of  those  plain,  unselfish  men,  who  fill 
hard  places  such  as  his,  receiving  no  glory,  and  little 
recognition  outside  of  them.  He  had  just  left  the 
two  together,  having  blessed  them,  and  received 
their  blessing,  and  so,  bidding  them  Godspeed,  he 
had  gone  his  ways. 

The  two  sat  straight  on  the  station  bench,  side  by 
side,  with  clasped  hands. 

It  was  an  hour  yet  before  the  train  left. 

"  We  'd  better  be  sure  and  be  in  time,"  the  old  lady 
had  said.  He  seemed  to  share  her  nervousness ;  he 
was  panting  to  be  off  and  away,  out  of  the  old  air, 
far  from  the  old  faces,  where  no  eye  but  hers  should 
look  in  his  with  the  consciousness  that  he  felt 
would  kill  him.  He  had  not  understood  that  to  be 
free  is  the  least  of  freedom.  To  be  held  worthy  of 
freedom  —  was  that  the  thing  ?  His  sick  soul  petu- 
lantly craved  the  impossible :  the  trust,  the  respect, 
the  confidence,  the  affection  of  honorable  men. 

Without  a  friend,  without  a  dollar,  without  a  foot- 
ing in  the  life  of  the  world,  without  a  home,  without 
so  much  as  a  shelter,  without  an  occupation  or  the 
prospect  of  any,  without  reference  to  a  past,  or  hope 
for  a  future,  how  were  these  two  weaklings  of  error 
and  fate  to  use  the  dark  and  doubtful  privilege  of  a 
convict's  pardon  ?  They  had  run  out  into  it,  like 
children  playing  on  an  iron  track  before  the  advan- 
cing train  that  thunders  behind  them  in  the  dusk. 
Like  children,  they  had  been  taken  up  and  carried. 


THE  LAW  AND   THE  GOSPEL.  457 

That  Christian  woman,  the  Lady  of  the  State,  who 
was  "just  like  folks,"  had  made  herself  the  goddess 
of  the  emergency  in  the  quiet,  almost  unrecognized 
way  in  which  she  was  accustomed  to  do  such  things. 
The  Governor,  who  was  used  to  shut  his  official  eyes 
to  his  wife's  private  charities,  smiled,  and  asked  no 
questions  for  policy's  sake,  but  ordered  his  horses 
and  went  off  for  a  ride  with  his  boy,  and  said  they 
would  trot  out  to  the  Whisk  Broom  Factory,  and 
whistled  all  the  way.     Once  he  was  heard  to  say :  — 

"  Confound  a  second  term  !  " 

The  Governor's  wife  and  the  prison  chaplain  had 
arranged  it  all  between  them.  Heaven  knows  how,  in 
a  snatch  of  time  like  that.  But  both  were  accus- 
tomed to  the  conquest  of  exigencies  ;  and  she  was 
a  general  at  the  management  of  helpless  people. 
Since  she  had  that  old  grocery  store  in  the  obscure 
mountain  village  in  the  remote  end  of  the  State, 
where  she  went  sometimes  in  the  summer,  to  be  un- 
fashionable and  happy;  and  since  the  store  was  closed 
for  lack  of  a  man  of  "  gumption  "  to  make  it  go,  and 
sure  of  the  "  go,"  if  it  had  the  gumption  ;  and  since 
she  was  willing  to  trust  the  little  business  to  an  ex- 
convict  —  was  that  anybody's  affair,  she  should  like 
to  ask  ? 

"  God  Almighty's,  possibly,  madam,"  the  chaplain 
had  said,  winking  very  fast.  "  You  may  find  that 
grocery  store  down  on  His  real  estate  list,  some 
day." 

The  chaplain  was  so  accustomed  to  give  spiritual 
advice  that  it  flowed  along  naively  upon  the  great 
lady,  who  received  it,  smiling  indulgently,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  ask :    And  since  over  the  grocery  store 


458  THE  LA  ]V  AND   THE  GOSPEL. 

there  was  a  little  tenement,  five  rooms  or  so,  decent, 
and  could  be  made  quite  comfortable,  and  were  fur- 
nished after  a  fashion  by  the  last  occupant;  and 
since  a  telegram  could  warm  them  up  and  put  a  few 
things  in  the  larder  for  the  two  poor  travelers  ;  and 
since  they  could  get  them  to  supper  on  Holy  Satur- 
day, and  spend  their  Easter  there,  at  home,  together 

—  was  there  any  reason,  Mrs.  Masscon  demanded,  in 
her  ringing  voice  (it  was  the  voice  of  the  Governor's 
wife,  used  to  having  matters  as  she  chose  them  to  be) 

—  was  there  any  reason  why  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Luke 
should  not  at  once  occupy  this  position  and  this 
home  ?  Having  said  this,  she  found  no  more  to  say, 
but  bade  Hans  drive  home,  sent  for  the  cook,  and 
ordered  to-morrow's  breakfast :  of  kidgeree. 

Thus  it  was  that  the  travelers  sat  in  the  station, 
alone,  an  hour  before  train  time,  Avhite  and  trem- 
bling, frightened  at  joy,  awed  before  the  mercy  for 
which  they  had  been  entreating  Heaven  for  nine 
wretched  years.  No  person  whom  they  knew  had 
spoken  with  them,  unless  we  except  the  Governor's 
Thomas,  who  deposited  a  roast  of  beef  and  a  basket 
of  fruit  and  a  package  of  new  books  at  the  old 
lady's  feet,  and  disappeared,  sniffing  considerably, 
without  any  social  overtures. 

Joseph  Luke  had  not  spoken  for  some  time  ;  his 
hands  were  shut  tightly  into  each  other;  his  free- 
man's clothes  sat  awkwardly  on  him  after  so  long 
an  estrangement ;  he  glanced  furtively  at  the  cut  of 
other  men's  hair  ;  he  winced  a  little  when  the  station 
police  passed  through  the  waiting-room  to  help  him- 
self to  a  cup  of  water.  His  mother  did  not  chatter 
nor  try  to  interrupt  his  reserve.     Perhaps  her  own 


THE  LAW  AND   THE  GOSPEL.  459 

soul  was  too  solemn ;  perhaps  her  body  was  too 
weak.  A  bright  color  burned  on  her  wrinkled 
cheeks.  Her  eyes  looked  large,  and  seemed  to  see 
to  a  long  distance.  She  opened  her  old  valise  and 
packed  away  her  gaiters ;  it  strengthened  her  to  do 
some  unimportant  thing.  When  she  raised  her 
head,  having  shut  and  clasped  the  valise,  the  seat 
beside  her  was  empty. 

With  a  shiver  of  horror  she  sprang  to  her  feet. 
Joseph  was  gone.  He  was  not  to  be  seen.  Afraid 
to  call  him,  afraid  to  cry  out  or  seek  help,  she  tot- 
tered out  into  the  middle  of  the  room  and  stood 
staring. 

Then  she  turned  slowly,  and  crawled  back  to  her 
seat. 

At  the  window  of  the  ticket-office  a  lady,  in  fresh 
and  expensive  mourning,  stood,  taking  ten  cents  for 
a  rebate  from  some  suburban  passage  bought  upon 
the  cars.  They  are  usually  people  of  ease  who  look 
most  carefully  after  their  dimes,  and  the  little 
woman  plainly  led  a  comfortable  life.  As  she  closed 
her  wallet  and  tossed  back  the  heavy  crape  veil, 
which  fell  almost  to  the  hem  of  her  long  cloak,  she 
turned  her  soft  face. 

Joseph  Luke  stood  directly  before  her.  It  was 
his  wife. 

The  blonde  gasped  for  breath,  and  Avalked  a  step 
or  two  and  passed  him.  She  seemed  to  hesitate.  The 
real  color  ran  beneath  her  rouge.  The  ex-convict, 
haggard,  with  cropped  hair  and  awkward  shuffle,  fol- 
loAved  her  silently.  As  the  lady  advanced,  the  man 
pursued.  The  contrast  between  the  two  was  so  evi- 
dent and  so  pitiful  that  the  audacity  of  his  act  could 


4G0  THE  LAW  A^D   THE  GOSPEL. 

not  escape  notice.  People  in  the  waiting-room  began 
to  raise  their  eyes.  The  station  policeman  might 
have  been  observed  not  to  seem  to  observe  the  scene. 
The  freed  prisoner  trod  firmly.  The  doll  began  to 
tremble  ;  she  hurried,  and  her  high  French  heels  made 
little  clicks  on  the  bare  floor.  He  followed  her  dog- 
gedly. She  did  not  repulse  him.  He  followed  her 
into  the  ante-room  that  led  to  the  exit,  and  the  door 
swung  to. 

The  old  lady  sat  alone  by  the  big  valise.  She  did 
not  look  at  the  ante-room  door.  She  did  not  dare 
to.  For  her  life  —  and  the  long,  irregular  throbs  of 
her  heart  told  her  that  life  and  death  were  wres- 
tling in  her  weak  body  —  she  would  not  have  in- 
truded on  those  two,  nor  so  much  as  said,  "  Joseph, 
have  you  forgotten  your  old  mother  ?  " 

Miranda  was  his  wife.  There  had  been  no  di- 
vorce. God  had  joined  them ;  whom  sin  and  weak- 
ness had  put  asunder. 

"  Miranda  is  the  kind  of  woman  who  has  to  see  a 
man,"  she  thought.  "  He  could  do  anything  with 
her  once.     He  might  again." 

Old  Mrs.  Luke  sat  quite  still.  She  stared  straight 
before  her.  Whether  moments  or  hours  passed  she 
did  not  know.  She  dared  not  look  at  the  station 
clock.  It  occurred  to  her  that  they  might  lose  the 
train,  but  she  could  not  remind  him.  Who  knew  ? 
Perhaps  he  meant  to  lose  the  train. 

He  was  a  man  now  ;  no  prisoner  any  longer,  to  be 
dependent  on  the  coddling  of  an  old  mother.  He 
could  do  as  he  pleased. 

The  station  policeman  sauntered  in,  and  made  an 
errand  in  the   ante-room,    and  strolled   back.     The 


THE  LAW  AND   THE  GOSPEL.  461 

colored  man  came  in  and  annonnced  two  or  three 
trains  ;  then  at  last  their  own  ;  the  train  that  led  to 
the  little  store  and  the  tenement  —  to  home,  to  hope, 
to  rest,  to  peace. 

The  ante-room  door  swung,  and  an  Irish  woman 
with  five  children  bounced  in.  She  was  followed 
by  an  old  gentleman  crawling  through  on  crutches. 
The  door  slammed  back. 

Mrs.  Luke's  brain  spun  ;  her  ears  rung  ;  the  room 
grew  black. 

"  Well,  mother  ?  " 

Suddenly  his  voice  smote  her,  and  she  saw  him. 
In  her  confused  condition  his  appearance  took  on 
the  nature  of  the  miraculous.  It  had  not  occurred 
to  her  that  there  was  any  other  door. 

He  sat  doAvn  beside  her,  and  began  to  take  up  the 
valise.  He  did  not  seem  as  agitated  as  she  expected. 
His  eye  had  a  strange^  strong  look,  and  his  mouth 
shut  decidedly  ;  his  weak  expression  seemed  to  have 
been  unlocked  from  his  face  like  a  fetter. 

"  Well,  mother  ?  "  he  repeated  quietly. 

"  What  did  Miranda  say,  Joseph  ?  " 

She  leaned  her  head  back  against  the  high  dado 
of  the  station  wall,  and  closed  her  eyes. 

"  Oh,  not  much." 

"  What  is  she  in  all  that  black  for  ?  She  wore 
blue  velvet  the  last  time  I  saw  her."' 

"  Her  father  is  dead." 

''  Oh  !  I  never  heard  that.  Did  you  know  it  be- 
fore ?  " 

"  Certainly.  It  was  in  the  papers  two  months 
ago." 

"  You  never  mentioned  it  to  me,  Joseph." 


462  THE  LAW  AND  THE  GOSPEL. 

"  No." 

"  What  else  did  Miranda  say  ?  " 

"  Not  much  of  anything.  She  would  have  come 
back  to  me,  I  think,  if  I  had  asked  her." 

"  Did  you  ask  her  ?  " 

"  It  is  time  to  take  our  train,  now,  mother.  Give 
me  that  valise." 

"  I  did  n't  know  but  what  you  'd  —  given  up  going, 
Joseph  ?  " 

"  Give  me  your  tickets.  There.  Take  my  arm, 
mother.  Come  along.  Come  this  way.  Lean  on 
me." 

"  But  what  did  you  say  to  Miranda  ?  "  panted  the 
old  lady,  trotting  along,  trying  to  keep  pace  with 
him. 

"  Why,  not  much.  I  told  her  my  mother  had 
stood  by  me  like  God  Almighty,  and  all  Hell 
should  n't  part  us  now.     That 's  all." 

But  when  they  had  got  into  the  cars,  the  old  lady 
gave  him  a  furtive  look. 

"  He  will  go  back  to  her,"  she  thought.  "  He 
loves  Miranda  —  after  all.  He  will  go  back  to  her 
when  I  am  gone." 

Easter  broke  brilliantly.  In  that  remote  village, 
the  late,  reluctant  spring  yielded  suddenly  and  ten- 
derly upon  the  sacred  morning,  and  all  the  wide 
country,  delicate  of  color,  pure  of  breath,  opened 
before  the  faded  eyes  that  saw  it  and  blessed  God. 

She  seemed  utterly,  incredibly,  divinely  happy. 
He  watched  her  anxiously,  for  the  transparency  of 
her  countenance  alarmed  him.     But  she  said  :  — 

"  1  am  quite  well,  my  son."  Then  in  a  few  mo- 
ments :  "  What  can  I  do  for  you,  my  dear  ?  " 


THE  LAW  AND   THE  GOSPEL.  463 

"  Joseph  —  are  you  comfortable  ?  " 

"  My  son,  did  you  rest  well  ?  Did  I  make  the 
bed  to  suit  you  ?  Were  you  warm  ?  And  happy  ? 
Dear,  was  the  coffee  to  your  taste  ?  " 

"  Joseph,  are  you  resting  ?  Are  you  sure  you  're 
happy  ?  This  is  a  very  comfortable  home,  I  think. 
"We  can  make  ourselves  quite  happy  here.  It  only 
needs  a  little  fixing,  and  to  care  for  it  and  pet  it. 
Homes  need  petting,  Joseph,  just  like  people." 

"  Thank  you,  dear.  I  'm  much  obliged  to  you  for 
kissing  me.  You  are  a  good  son  ;  you  are  a  comfort 
to  me,  Joseph.  I  am  glad  I  did  not  die.  I  am  very 
happy.  It  is  Easter  Sunday.  I  should  like  tiO  go 
to  church,  I  think ;  I  am  so  happy.  Would  you 
mind,  my  son  ?  " 

He  could  not  bring  himself  to  disappoint  her  ;  and 
he  accompanied  her,  shrinking  and  abashed,  to  the 
village  service,  and  heard  the  resurrection  hymns, 
and  breathed  the  Easter  flowers,  and  was  not  sorry 
he  had  gone  ;  and  came  home  gently  and  passed  the 
day  beside  her.  They  talked  of  all  their  little  plans 
and  hopes  and  dreams ;  of  freedom,  of  peace,  and 
honor,  and  the  respect  of  neighbors,  and  honest 
labor,  and  years  of  calm  content.  She  was  feverish 
and  excited,  but  celestially  happy. 

They  parted  early  that  night,  for  he  saw  how  she 
needed  sleep ;  and  she  kissed  him  and  blessed  him, 
and  he  knelt  before  her,  and  put  his  face  upon  her 
lap  as  he  used  to  do  when  he  was  a  little  boy. 

"  Your  curls  will  grow  again,  fast,"  she  said,  pass- 
ing her  trembling  hand  across  his  poor  head.  "  You 
will  soon  be  my  own  boy  again." 

She   did  not   say  anything  more  after  this,   but 


464  THE  LAW  AND  THE  GOSPEL. 

went  to  her  own  room  and  seemed  to  be  very  quiet 
and  peaceful.  It  was  a  beautiful  night,  with  a  high, 
fair  moon. 

In  the  morning,  when  he  had  started  the  fire,  she 
did  not  slip  out  in  her  patched  wrapper  to  make  the 
coffee  as  early  as  he  had  expected,  so  he  went  down 
to  the  grocery  store  and  dusted  it  out,  and  busied 
himself  a  while.  His  heart  throbbed  at  being  trusted 
with  this  rude  duty.  As  he  swept,  snatches  of  the 
Easter  chant  rose  to  his  unaccustomed  lips.  He  felt 
almost  embarrassed  there  alone  in  the  empty  store, 
because  he  found  himself  humming  softly  :  — 

"  The  Lord  is  risen, 
The  soul  is  free !  ' ' 

Now,  she  slept  so  late,  that  it  occurred  to  him 
presently  to  go  up-stairs  and  see  if  she  needed  him 
for  anything.  So  he  put  away  the  broom,  straws 
uppermost,  with  the  methodical  fidelity  of  a  happy 
person,  and  climbed  the  stairs,  still  humming :  — 

' '  The  soul  is  free  ! 
The  soul  is  free  I  " 

When  he  had  washed  the  dust  from  his  face  and 
hands,  he  went  in  at  last,  and  spoke  to  her. 

Afterward  it  was  remembered  how  she  had  asked  : 
"  To  see  my  son  a  free  man  —  and  to  have  a  little 
home  of  our  own  —  if  only  for  twenty-four  hours 
before  I  die  ! " 


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